


A Coin, A Fish and Magic

by never_going_home



Series: Tales of Merlyn and Other Odd Endeavours of Destiny [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Ealdor, F/F, F/M, Female Merlin (Merlin), Internalized Homophobia, Kilgharrah Sucks, Magic, Merlin is Bi, Merlin is a Little Shit, Morally ambiguous Gaius, Multi, Nightmares, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, So much angst, Uhhh i think, a bit of, endgame merlin/arthur/gwen, hunith doesn't like gaius, no beta we die like every single merlin character, probably, quite frankly neither do i
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21791953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/never_going_home/pseuds/never_going_home
Summary: In the last two weeks, Merlyn's life has taken a turn for the strange. A month ago, she was weaving cloth with her mother and plotting Old Man Simmon's demise with her best friend. Then she burned down the storehouse in the final days of autumn, then she killed a man, then she ran away in the dead of night. Now she's folding the socks of the son ofUther Pendragonand saving him every other hour because he's the target of three assassination attempts on any given day and the royal guard of Camelot is useless. Go figure. This is apparently her life now.Funnily enough, though, her greatest fear isn't the king, or his son, Arthur (she was never going to get over being annoyed by that), but something far closer to home, as it were. But it's fine. Her debilitating guilt doesn't get in the way of her job, and she's very good at lying besides, so it'sfine,if only the bloody dragon in the basement would justshut up.
Relationships: Gaius & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen/Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Leon & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Tales of Merlyn and Other Odd Endeavours of Destiny [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570387
Comments: 70
Kudos: 179





	1. Part I: The Brave Do Not Live Forever

_but the cautious do not live at all  
_


	2. Good Samhain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Merlyn and Will, and I'm absolutely awful at writing beginnings, so this might take a while to get up off its feet. Sorry folks.

This is a story about stories. This tells the tale of the wolf in the lamb’s skin, the tale of death, and sacrifice, betrayal and caution. It tells the tale of the chances not taken, apologies never given, of fools and magic and princes and kings.

It is a story about growing up.

Let us now see now the girl this tale tells of. The ever-reaching bird’s eye-view of the reader must stretch far, far away, both in distance and in time.

This story starts in a place named Ealdor. It’s nothing special, naught but a village upon the borders of Camelot and Essetir. They are farmers, there. Sheep and crops and spinning and weaving. A place for people to come from, not go to.

Let the scene be set now. The sun is slipping down the horizon, and a young girl is running down a well-trodden path. She is tall, taller than average, taller than many of the men in her village. But where they are stocky, she is thin, all knees and elbows and impossibly sharp cheekbones. It is the day of Samhain, the day of the dead. See now the feast is over and people returning to their homes to pray and remember. All but one.

The girl’s name… the girl has many names. For now, though, she shall be called _Merlyn._ It's a falcon, of sorts. She is running to the croft of her only friend, as she has nearly every day of her life. (All but for three years and three days, but we shall not speak of that, not yet.) She is wearing heavy skirts and new boots, a neckerchief around her neck and a few wildflowers in her hair to honour the passing of the old year and the birthing of the new.

She is a child, nothing less, but so much more. This is a story about stories, and this is _her_ story.

So let us begin.

*

Merlyn ran along the pathway, smock and apron flying. Frost and dry grass stems cracked under booted foot as she pelted towards Will's croft. Her best friend, she knew, loved this time of day as much as she did.But when she passed the storehouse, she stared steadfastly at the path in front of her. The rank smell of smoke still hung about the burnt structure, a testament to her lack of control. Her collarbone prickled, and she shied away, fingers pressed lightly against the healing cut. This place was the unwilling resting-place of a village-man, and the last shreds of her self-control. No blessings had been said over his bones; to pass by here on Samhain was a risky thing, especially when she herself had... had... 

She ran the rest of the way.

“Will,” she called out as she neared his dwelling. No reply. “William.” Still nothing. Merlyn sighed. “ _William_ , come out here _right now_.” Silence. She was growing impatient now. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes and let the magic spread her field of awareness out. This kind of trick always came easiest to her, letting her see what was really there in her surroundings. He was…

Someone grabbed her shoulders, trying to startle her.

…Right behind her.

Merlyn grinned to herself. Try though he might, Will had never managed to surprise her, though long had his attempts run. She assumed a sour look as she rotated slowly, ever the actress. This was all part of the game, and so often that had they played it, it was less of a game and more of a ritual.

“ _Do_ come when you’re called, William.” He swept into a low bow.

“Of course, dear Merlyn.” She lightly slapped his arm away as he reached up to ruffle her hair. “Why did you have to cut it off? I _liked_ it long,” Will complained. She let out a short, breathy laugh, cheeks stained pink from the sharp night air, and crooked her fingers, stooping over theatrically.

 _"Lice,_ my boy. If you're not careful, they'll come and," she waggled her fingers at him, "they'll come and strip the flesh from your bones!" Will raised his eyebrows.

"Well, they _might,_ " Merlyn said defensively. 

"No they won't."

"But they _might_." 

"That's horse shyte and you know it, Lyn."

They talked in that way best friends do, when there is so much said and nothing remembered, the best kind of conversation. When the moon had risen, high in the sky, Merlyn bade her farewells.

“Good Samhain, Will.”

“Good Samhain, Lyn.” 

The storehouse loomed in her vision as she hurried home, huge and hulking, half-destroyed. Merlyn stopped, staring up at it, her feet rooted to the spot. 

Samhain. It was Samhain. She just prayed that it wasn’t midnight, when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead were the thinnest. Had anyone set out a candle to appease the spirit of the man who she had killed? No. Had she said the blessing-words over the charred bones left in the ashes? No. Someone was screaming. The scent of burning flesh hung in the air. Something was calling her name, over and over.

She was- she was _crying_. Kneeling terrified and alone on a road of darkness, where ordinarily torches were stationed, where the storehouse had blistered and burned and lit up the sky. Kneeling terrified and alone in darkness _she had made._

Merlyn was almost unaware of how her eyes flashed gold, how the wind had picked up, whistling through trees and uprooting lesser plants, how great black clouds rolled across the pale face of the moon, how thunder rolled darkly in the distance. All she could hear was screaming, screaming, screaming, the cries of a dead man burning, and somewhere, somehow, she could hear her sister was screaming too.

Darkness she had made. Darkness she was making.

“Merlyn! _Merlyn!_ ” 

_Don’t listen_. That’s what Mam had always said. _Never heed the voices of the dead on Samhain – or yours will join them._

And then there were arms around her, and they were warm and real and alive. Someone was holding her tight, rocking back and forth. 

Rosemary and woodsmoke. Rosemary and woodsmoke. Rosemary and woodsmoke. The smell of home. 

“Mam,” Merlyn sobbed into her mother’s shoulder, almost afraid she was real, clutching the rough fabric of Hunith's dress like she would never let it go. She could feel her mother's bracelet press into her skin, and although uncomfortable, the slight pain was grounding. "I thought- I thought…”

“My dear lionheart,” Hunith whispered, and the words cut through everything. The wind abated, the thunder died down, and it began to pour rain. "Be still, my girl. You are safe now. You are safe now."

_*  
Fire. Fire everywhere. Roaring and licking its burning tongue across her skin._

_Everyone standing in silence. Will frowning. Behind him, a man cloaked in shadow, holding a knife, poised above her best friend. Silver arcing downward._

_The flaming pyre holding her beginning to crumble to dust, floating into the wind. The man grinning horribly, blood staining his teeth, Will toppling slowly to the ground._

_Hissing, ‘Farewell, Emrys’ as shadows engulf her, smiling as they burn her into nothing._  
*  
The sky was still dark outside, in the way of darkness before sunrise when Merlyn woke, shaking and cold all over.She stared at the ceiling for a long time, then as quietly as she could, began to pack a rucksack. She dressed herself in her hunting clothes and the jacket Will had once given her (or, more correctly, she had borrowed and never returned), stuffing all her worldly possessions - her clothes, her sister's doll, the red clay marbles she hadn't played with since she was a child - in, binding her moth-eaten blanket in a roll on top. 

But she was not a scared child of one-and-ten summers any more, fleeing from fire. She was a perfectly responsible adult with six-and-ten years of experience. Besides, she had A Plan. Admittedly, was a terrible plan, not thought out and incredibly rash in the way plans made in terror and fear tend to be. But the events that occurred on Samhain and a sennight before on her name-day haunted her at every turn. She still fled from fire, although she would be loath to admit it. Fire burnt and fire was burning, and it all lead back to her. She shivered, then shook herself, taking up a piece of charcoal from the hearth. Painstakingly, she wrote two things upon the table, for they owned no paper, the letters she had been taught at her mother’s knee, although her mother had never used them in the way she was meant to.

_God b w ye_

She hesitated only for a moment, then smudged it out. Her village was still very much caught up in the older religion, worshiping the Goddess and trees and sacred places. But their king, Cenred, liked to enslave magic users by at first making them feel powerless by removing their connections to the land, and so the wild roots of their beliefs were smoothed over with the flat soil of Christianity, barely restraining it. Their local lord was ever Cenred's cronie, and like to... reinforce this. Often, Will had taken the brunt of it; he cultivated trouble - trouble, not mischief - and never knew when to stand down, something that had cost him dearly. Taking a breath, she wrote once more.

_~~God b w ye~~ Myrddin_

A name, it was all for a name. For a fool, pagan name that would, one day, be the downfall of everything. Had been already. She took her water skin from the hook behind the door, and from a box hidden beneath a floorboard, a small pouch of coins intended to be part of her dowry. Scillingas and Sceattas weighed down her belt where the pouch was fastened, a constant reminder of her guilty conscience. She hoped her mother would understand. With her went her father's hunting knife, but in her haste she forgot her bow, and so it stayed leaning next to her loom for more than a year, gathering dust. Then she set off.

And so it was that Merlyn unknowingly began the journey to Camelot, and thus set the wheels of destiny in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaddup everyone, and welcome. It, er, gets better, I swear.


	3. And So We Encounter The Fish and The Once And Future King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlyn gets drunk, gets mugged (sort of) in an alleyway by the two knights of Camelot who got her drunk in the first place, and encounters Arthur for the first time, and handles it spiffingly.  
> I mean, at least she meets Gwen, Morgana and Gaius in the next chapter, so, bonus I guess??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drinking song was taken from the Carmina Burana, via this [link.](https://www.medievalists.net/2014/11/medieval-drinking-song/) I don't believe the website is the one I used originally, but I couldn't find it, and had to make do with this.  
> 

Merlyn sat on her pack, moping. She had followed her feet, and the treacherous things had taken her across the border into the kingdom of Camelot, and, somehow, to the city itself. What an _idiotic_ thing to do.

In short, she had somehow ended up in the most anti-magic place in existence. Just her luck.

She peered through the rain at a gaggle of intoxicated men stumbling out of the local tavern and swearing as they get hit by the deluge. Merlyn pressed herself against the wall of the tavern she was leaning against, willing herself to be smaller. It seemed to work, even only for a moment.But then one man nudged his friend in the ribs, and they broke off from the group (who were too busy singing bawdy songs to notice), lurching in her (very general) direction. As the two staggered towards Merlyn, she saw how their red livery was stained with drink, food, and worse. Guards, then. Or, judging by the quality of their ruin clothes, knights.

When they were practically standing on top of her, the taller one loomed over her, face set in a leering grin. To her amazement, he then (as far as she could understand through the slurring), offered to buy her a drink.

 _A drink._ She had only ever tasted a type of alcohol called _Grenn,_ a brew the men of the village made under suspicious circumstances and had spat it out almost as soon as it passed her lips. Will had wet himself laughing, for he had already managed to stomach half a cup, and then promptly passed out, remaining in a comatose state for the next two days.

One of the older men, Three-teeth Jack, had smiled widely (revealing the reason for his nickname), and handed a stone jar of Grenn to her, asking Merlyn to give his regards to her mother. Hunith had taken a whiff of the stuff, and set to cleaning everything metal, both in and around the house. Merlyn could see her reflection in the scythe for a year.

A drink.

And because Merlyn was lonely and tired and really too foolish for her own good, she agreed.

*

One drink turned into many, and Merlyn's memories of that night would always seem hazy and pieced together. It was almost as though a toddler had been blindfolded, set down in front of a thousand-piece jigsaw and asked to complete it. And, as a fundamental principle of general toddler-ness throughout the universe, pieces would, invariably, be eaten. Perhaps she couldn’t remember anything because her memory-toddler had been particularly ravenous, Merlyn thought, admittedly rather muzzily.

She vaguely remembered getting up in a table at some point and teaching them a little village tune that the boys would sing at harvest. Merlyn had started about a quarter of the way through the song, and forgotten the rest of it. Here is an approximation of what was sung, minus most of the ummings and ahhings and apologies to the air in general, the corruption of words as sung by someone who is a total lightweight and has consumed more alcohol than is really good for them, the unique talent of not being able to stick to any one tune, the brief pause as the singer's tankard was refilled, and the unforgettable ending in which Merlyn lost her balance and fell off the table.

 _"‘Oh Lady Luck your gifts are bad,'_ hey watch where you put your arm mister-

 _"'You trick us then you make us,'_ what's the word? Oh yeah, ' _Mad,'_

 _"'Make us gamble, make us fight,'_ look buddy I'll fight _you_ in a moment if you don’t shut up,

 _"'And sit out in the cold all night.'_ Do you have a bucket handy my good lady? Immabouta chuck my- oops, sorry."

She eventually stumbled out of _The Rising Sun,_ arm in arm with one of the fellows, crooning the Refrain of Morning. Her head was buzzing not unpleasantly,

_‘Beeeeee not weeeeeary, friend oooooo’ mine,_

_We're sailing o'eeerrrr the tiiiiiides o' tiimmee-_ Stop you’re flat Sam you’re flat stop singing damn it-

_The new day greeeets us frooom the shooooorrrreee,_

_Just like the goooooollldeennn day befooooooooooorrrreree-_ watch where you’re putting your elbow buddy hey _watch it!’_ She jabbed him in the ribs as recompense, then stumbled backwards as Sam’s fist caught her square in the mouth. She spat blood on the cobblestones of the alley they had somehow ended up in.

“What was'at for?” Merlyn demanded, already getting unsteadily to her feet.

“You owe me moonnneeeyyyy,” Sam hissed, drawing out the last word like a taffy-maker stretching taffy. Merlyn frowned in concentration as she tried to digest these words.

“No I don’t.”

“Oh yeaaahhhhh? Who bought all your drinksh then, farm boy?”

“I-” Merlyn scowled at where she thought her companion stood. “ _I_ bought my drinks you- you- bobolyne.” She headbutted him in the nose.

“No, _I_ did, with my _kindnesh_ and- and _goodwill._ ” He tried to put her in a choke-hold, and Merlyn bit him. Hard.

“Owowowowow!” Sam shrieked, shaking the injured fingers. They fought, punching and kicking and spitting all manner of foul curses until Sam’s friend came along, pack slung over his shoulder.

“Hey that’s- that’s-” Merlyn began, when something hit her in the back of the head, and she sank, vision swimming, onto the cobblestones.

In the murky light cast by a distant torch, Merlyn could make out two figures bent over, rifling through something. Her skull throbbed like an over-enthusiastic percussion section (if she had known what a percussion section was, or, indeed, if they’d been invented yet) were having free reign inside it.

“Hey,” she rasped. “Hey, that’s my stuff.” If the formerly benevolent duo had noticed her, they didn’t show it. Merlyn grabbed the nearest wall, pulling herself up. The cymbals in the non-existent percussion section swelled in triumphant crescendo, making her wince, then gag. She tottered over, concentrating on a single thought.

_No magic._

“That’s my _stuff!”_ She gave a half-hearted punch at the one who had originally offered to buy her a drink. His name was Simon, she remembered. He grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back, keeping her in place. Merlyn let out a shriek of protest as they ripped her pack apart, spilled her belongings onto the ground, rifling roughly through them with a sword. She glared at them as a long rip was made in her blanket. The other, Sam, dug around in the pack, at last coming up with something small and wrapped in cloth. He grunted, and Merlyn’s eyes widened as she recognised what it was.

_No magic._

Contrary to his previous heavy-handedness, Sam was very gentle as he removed the coverings, perhaps thinking it held something of value.

It didn't. Not really. Not to him. But Merlyn wouldn't trade it for all the silk and spices and Eastern spices in the world.

When he finished, a child’s doll lay in his hand. It was made of rough canvas, stuffed with straw. Her breath caught in her throat as Sam snorted in disgust, threw it to the cobbles, and, with one quick flick of his blade, tore it in two. She tried to pull her arm away from Simon, but he yanked her back, wrenching it harder.

“If you tell _anyone_ about this,” he growled, voice still heavy-laden with drink, “we will find you, and make your life living hell. Do you understand?”

_No magic no magic no magic._

There was a very audible _crack_ , and white hot pain flooded through Merlyn’s mind. Oh Mother her _wrist-_

“I _said, do you understand?_ ”

 _No magic no magic no magic no magic._ She curled her bloodied lip, pulled forward, and bit him upon the nose. Samuel staggered back with a cry, clutching the injured orifice with one hand and boxing her ears soundly with the other.

_No magic._

A new voice rose up within her, deep and commanding.

 _Use your magic! Cast them down where they stand!_ It... didn’t sound like hers.

_No magic no magic no magic._

The other bared its metaphorical teeth at her.

 _Use your magic. You are powerful – so_ powerful _, Myrddin._ How did it know her name? That was definitely shady.

 _I know many things, Myrddin._ It was growing louder now, drowning out her’s voice. Thoughts. Whatever.

 _Get out of my head._ _Get **out.**_

“Come on,” Simon snapped at Sam, oblivious to Merlyn’s inner torment. “The kid’s got nothing.” They sidled out of the alleyway, presumably going back to the tavern for more ale. As soon as they were out of sight, Merlyn crawled over to the ruined doll, holding the pieces gingerly in her right hand. The voice was screaming at her.

 _You still have time! Hit them from behind!_ Merlyn set her jaw.

_No._

Whoever – _whatever_ was in her mind paused, shocked into silence.

_What?_

“I said _no._ ” Tears dripped down her nose. “ _I will not do them harm_.” The voice grumbled, receding into silence as she stared at pieces of canvas and straw. The cobblestones beneath were buckled slightly beneath her knees, a result of shoddy laymanship. It's little things like this the mind notices before it becomes consumed by burning rage. This had been her sister's, but her sister was dead now. She stayed kneeling on the ground for a while, her head tilted back to watch the moon. Well, what now?

Now she was going to cause some trouble. That night, after getting into a street brawl, she was arrested for the first time.

It wouldn’t be the last.

*

The next day, Merlyn witnessed her first execution in Camelot. She had rented a cheap room in one of Camelot’s seedier inns, who’s name was, as she understood it, _The King’s Kneecap_ , although the reason for this was lost in laughter and pints of a drink she wasn’t actually sure was fit for human consumption.

It was market day.

Hens clucked, women bartered, and fine fabrics floated on the biting breeze that had picked up. Children ran between parents’ legs and under stalls, laughing as they played. Hens clucked some more. Overhead, a buzzard screamed in a sky void of clouds. It was a perfect autumn day. Then the drums began, the heavy, rolling sound drawing people inexorably to the castle square within the Citadel itself, a part of Camelot that had hitherto remained untraversed by the feet of one Merlyn Wyllt. There was a raised platform that a crowd had gathered around, and Merlyn ignored the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, instead wondering if a show was to be put on. Once, when she had been about eight summers old, a travelling production company had gotten lost and ended up in Ealdor, and when they had arrived, decided they might as well stay for a while. They had a stage not unalike to this.

And then a man was dragged out, flanked by many Camelot guards, up onto the platform, and forced to his knees. Merlyn bit her lip in thought.

Perhaps, then, it was a sacrifice. But no. The stage had no carvings of ogham, no druids. No trees. She shuddered. Camelot was a strange place, indeed, full of stone and the only wood found within the city walls used to build houses. Even though her sister's father's city around his castle was built predominantly on and with stone from the rocky shores nearby, it didn't feel like it was stifling the land. There, the stone had coexisted with the rest of the land, but here... here she could barely feel the earth beneath her.

The drums halted as a richly-clothed man upon a high-up balcony began to speak, cutting off the excited chatter of the people around her. A great dread stole over Merlyn. She had seen this kind of stage before, but only ever from where the man stood now. He talked of how the man, Thomas James Collins was ‘guilty of conspiring to use enchantments and magic’, and how he, Uther Pendragon, had made it so that such a _crime_ was punishable only by death.

His arm went up. His arm went down. The head of Thomas James Collins rolled, and that was that.

Uther Pendragon (who was, she had learned during his grandiose monologue, the king, although she had heard terrible, grisly tales of him before) made a speech roughly translating to It’s All About Me Not the Man I Just Had Killed, Let’s Party. People began to disperse from the crowd as though nothing had happened, merely buzzing with the news of the sennight-long celebrations that were going to take place. Nobody seemed perturbed by what they had just witnessed, as though it were a perfectly normal thing.

Well, nobody except an old woman wailing a wail fit enough for a funeral. Privately, Merlyn agreed with her, although she did have better self-control. Over her material self, anyway. The woman's hair was matted, and, from the smell of her, she didn’t believe in the benefits of personal hygiene. Wonderful. She was the female version of Old Man Simmons, who's last bath had occured when he got caught in a rain shower ten years ago.

“There is only one evil in this land, and it is not magic, it is you! With your hatred and ignorance! _You took my son._ ” Another cry. “And I _promise_ you, before these celebrations are over, you will share my tears. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, _a son for a son_.” The king called for her arrest, because of course he did, but the woman looked around furiously, clutching some sort of amulet around her neck, and, chanting like a madman, disappeared in a funnel of wind and smoke. Merlyn blinked, staring at the empty place the old woman had occupied three seconds earlier.

It was different from a sacrifice, she told herself. A sacrifice was almost always willing, (almost), not this... callous _bloodshed_. There was no reason for it, she was sure, except to sate the thirst for violence this king possessed. In Ealdor, the sacrifices were usually animals and it still turned her stomach, but she had really thought she had escaped the horrors of witnessing bloody, messy executions such as this five years ago.

The world seemed much greyer now; the sky had become somewhat overcast, outspoken citizens now talkeing hesitantly, looking over their shoulders in apprehension, children hiding in their mothers’ skirts. Everywhere the old woman’s words were echoed softly by all who had witnessed them screamed with such grief.

_You took my son._

*

Merlyn sat back on her haunches, wiping her face with slippery hand, and then immediately regretting it. The fishmonger grinned encouragingly at her from where he knelt gathering fish, making the universal gesture of, ‘in your own time.’ She chewed her lip thoughtfully.

“How did you say this got spilt again?” She asked. The fishmonger wrinkled his tanned forehead in a frown.

“Some knights knocked it over.” Merlyn huffed. Knights were stupid. Her guard that once she'd had had been respectful, but only barely, and Camelot's knights were shaping up to be no better.

“Of course they did, the little _mumblemumblemumbles._ ”

“No, no, it’s not like that. I’m sure it was an accident,” he gabbled. “The knights of our kingdom are good and chivalrous men, miss.” And Merlyn thought: what kind of knights _are_ they, that common men such as this should be so afraid of a bad word being said about them?

“Really? I’ll keep that in mind.” Her attention returned back to the fish, carefully sorting it, when a commotion of laughter arose. Merlyn looked up. Across the courtyard, a tall, golden-haired man was throwing daggers at a servant running back and forth with a shield. She cocked her head to one side, watching. The guy had pretty good aim, she decided, even if he was being a total brat. This, apparently, were the kind of knights they were. Huh.

The fishmonger smiled at her in a worried sort of way as she payed him a crown - a crown! - for a fish, and advanced towards the group – the _clique_ – of men clustered around the dagger-thrower. Standing a polite distance from him but still infringing upon his personal space, a personal talent of hers, Merlyn tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, buddy,” she hissed, and he half-turned, irritated.

“What?” He snapped. Okay, so he was going to be an ast about this as well. Fine. She could too. So fast he barely had time to blink, Merlyn brought the fish around in a wide, flailing arc, hitting the man soundly across the cheek. There was a faint cracking sound, and her makeshift weapon sagged pathetically in the middle. Merlyn held it up at face height, inspecting it theatrically, before shifting her gaze as she attempted to glare holes into the stranger’s skull. She sighed.

“You damned knights think you’re so entitled to everything, don’t you?” The man stumbled backward, hand clutching his reddening cheek. Merlyn contrived to look slightly apologetic, and failed spectacularly. She grinned at him manically.

“Ooh, look, it has a weak spine.” The smile fled from her face as quickly as it had arrived. “Just like you, I think.” The man standing nose-to-nose with her began to splutter, and Merlyn groaned.

“Oh my- look, you’ve _had_ your fun, my friend.”

“Do I know you?” He stared as she awkwardly switched the fish to her left hand and stuck out her right.

“Um, I’m- I’m Merlyn.”

“So I don’t.”

“No.” The proffered hand dropped back to her side, and the fish slithered to the cobbles. He looked at her quizzically. Mockingly.

“And yet you called me _friend_. And… _buddy._ ” The man looked amused. Ah. So he was trying for the petty approach. That was fine, it was all fine. She could out-petty Will, which was considered something of an accomplishment in Ealdor.

“So it seems that was my mistake.”

“Yes.”

“You see, I could never have a friend who could be such an ass.” She spun on her heel, ready to walk away, when he spoke. She rolled her eyes, but kept her back to him. She didn't _want_ to speak to him.

“Nor I one who could be so _stupid._ ” Oh _really._ “Tell me, _Mer_ lyn, do you know how to walk on your knees?” Merlyn choked at that. Did he-? No. Surely not. Ew. She poured all the petulance she could manage into her voice when she answered no.

“Would you like me to teach you?” Her eyebrows nearly became one with her hairline as she went back to glaring holes in his thick, thick head.

“Look, _buddy,_ even I wanted to know, I sure as _hell_ wouldn’t take lessons from _you._ I have something rather _different_ in mind.” There was laughter and several ‘oohs!’ from the onlookers. While the more rational parts of her brain screamed at her, Merlyn smiled without a trace of good humour.

“And what are you going to do to me?”

“Oh, you have no idea.” And he didn’t. He really didn’t. He genuinely had no clue of how she had brought a village to its knees time and time again as a _child,_ didn’t know what a monstrosity, what a hell-spawn she was. She envied him for his blissful ignorance.

“I’m sure I don’t.” He spread his hands wide, grinning. “However, be my guest.” Merlyn nodded, and kicked him in the shin, turning her foot so the heavy wooden heel of her boot dug in. His face grew dark with fury and he grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back. The world burned incandescent, then faded to grey around the edges as Merlyn paled. Oh Mother her wrist-!

“You, Merlyn,” he spat, “are guilty of trying to attack three knights of Camelot. Since you are young and foolish and new in this city, I _won’t_ take you in front of the king. As it is, perhaps a day in the stocks will teach you some _manners._ ”

“And what gives you any right?” She snapped back at him, almost mad with pain. “Just who do you think you are, you bloody dullard? The _king?_ ” Mystery Man leant down so his mouth was by her ear.

“No. I’m his son. _Arthur._ ” He let go suddenly, and she fell to the ground, heedless of the hands dragging her towards the stocks. Because he had said his name was _Arthur._ That he was the son of the king.

He was Prince Arthur. The guy who was going to unite Albion. The guy _everyone said would be a better king than his father_. The guy who had just spared her from what was going to result in exile, or execution, had shown her what might be called the slightest of mercies, had instead decided to condemn her to a day of torture where the only truly lasting marks the device left were those on the pride, when it could have been so easy to just leave her to the cruelness of his king. And so she hated him, bitterly, passionately, but could not bring herself to turn her hatred into loathing.

(It must be pointed out here that hate is merely just another force of attraction, hate is only love with its back turned. Keep this in mind, reader, and be wary her hate does not become indifference.)

But all in all, to put it in Merlyn’s own words, damnation and _bugger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't actually ever seen anyone drunk, nor been drunk myself, so this might not be quite right.


	4. In Which The Stocks Are Revealed in The Face Of Ignorance to be Pillories and Merlyn Gets Arrested (Again); Meeting Guinevere; Finding Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hehehe... sorry for the long wait y'all (read the tags; it *does* say sporadic updates). Basically what it says on the tin, with some added Gwen thrown in bc I love her. Hehe I lied about Morgana being in this, possibly next chapter? Also angst. maybe. who knows? Not me. I own nothing but the plot. (I'm pretty sure some other dude has dibs on Ganieda tho so yeet) (also im pulling a Terry Pratchett 'going postal' thing with the titles and making them long bc i can)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so random story, but I went to finish writing this chapter today and had a mini heart attack bc I thought I'd lost ALL of my planning for future chapters. Oops. Anyway, I found it. Hope y'all enjoy! (Also if you wish it please drop a kudos, I feed them to my muse and she often hungers)

“How’s the knee-walking coming along?” Merlyn bit down on her tongue to halt some sort of witty reply that would land her in the stocks once more. That twit of a prince could go rot in a dungeon, for all she cared.

“Aw, don’t run away!” Any good intentions Merlyn had about not doing something rash flew out the window and off to the other side of Albion. She clenched her fists. She was _not_ running away, from anything or anyone.

And, as luck would have it, she was quite possibly the worst liar to ever walk the earth.

“From _you?_ ” Merlyn snickered. “I think _not_.” Arthur sighed as he walked within reasonable speaking distance.

“Thank God. I thought you were deaf as well as dumb.”

“Look, _sire_ , I said you were a spineless ass. I just didn’t realise you were a _royal_ one. And no wonder, for you have the manners of a ruffian.” Several uniformed guards began to close in, and Merlyn giggled, high and false. _Too close, too close._ “Oh what you gonna do, get your daddy's men to protect you?”

“I could take you apart with a single blow.”

“I could take you apart in less.” Arthur scoffed, utter disbelief painting his ~~admittedly attractive~~ ugly mug.

“I killed a man not two sennights hence. Believe me when I say I’m dangerous.” Merlyn's voice was low, but it carried. Arthur raised his eyebrows, disbelief all too clear.

“You expect me to believe that _you,_ a skinny little boy who’s barely seen eighteen summers-”

Merlyn didn’t bother to correct him, so strong was this new indignity. His Royal Highness thought she was a _boy._

“-Has committed murder?” He continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “Really, _Mer_ lyn, you are an awful liar.” Well, he wasn't wrong, but he thought she was fibbing. Of _course_ he did, moronic as he was.

_Blood splashing upon her face._

_“Tell me why you were here!”_

“I only wish your foolish thinking were true, _sire._ ” She scratched the cut irritably.

“Well, if you’re sure,” the fool gestured to one of his men, who tossed her a weird-looking weapon. Was it a mace? A flail? Preoccupied with the wound on her collarbone, she fumbled for its handle, dropping it in surprise at its unexpected heaviness.

Merlyn shrugged off her jacket, laying it gently next to a market stall. Arthur accepted his flail thing, swinging it through the air with practise ease.

Oh, she was _screwed._

“Come on then. I warn you, I’ve been trained to kill since birth.” Merlyn tilted her chin obnoxiously, just managing to look down her nose at him.

“And how long have you been training to be a prat?”

“You can’t address me like that.” He seemed almost like... he was warning her. Disbelieving that someone would speak to him in such a manner and expect to get away with it. Merlyn ignored it, choosing instead to take the opportunity to bow mockingly.

“I’m sorry, how long have you been training to be a prat, _my lord?_ ” Sarcasm is stronger than the sword, she thought.

But not, apparently the flail. It whistled past her shoulder a moment later, and she danced back, grimacing. This was _fun._ (It really wasn’t.) Arthur advanced, and Merlyn retreated into the market stalls, perhaps aiding herself with a bit of magic. A nudge here, a prod there, and Arthur was looking like a clumsy dolt. _Hah._ Served him right.

Merlyn tripped backwards, probably over thin air, and lay sprawled on her back, staring up at Arthur, who had had his flail held high, preparing to deal the final blow. But Merlyn wasn’t having any of that, no sire! Gold glinted, and a few meat hooks entangled themselves in her tormentor’s weapon. While he was preoccupied removing them, Merlyn rolled and leapt up, then went on the move again, the prince close on her heels.

“Are you aware, _my lord,_ that your stocks are not, in fact, stocks?” She inquired. Arthur tripped over a box that had mysteriously moved into his path.

“No, they aren’t.” Merlyn laughed, then ducked hurriedly as his flail whistled over her head. He was holding out on her, she could tell. He could kill her, if he wanted to. He had said so himself. But so could she.

“Yes, they are,” Merlyn countered, back flat against the wall. “Stocks restrain the _feet,_ you see, a pillory the head and arms, and the pranger-” she ducked under his arm and back-pedalled furiously, “the pranger is _strange,_ and it’s a punishment that is most certainly both cruel and unusual.” Despite himself, Arthur looked intrigued.

“And what does this pranger of yours do?” Merlyn laughed gaily.

“I’m not telling you anything, _sire_ , don’t want to give you id-” she began.

_Crack._

Pain exploded throughout her left arm, an ordinarily glancing blow turned into something that rivalled torture itself. Merlyn fell flat on her back, rolled, and kicked a bucket behind Arthur’s foot as he stepped back. She jumped up, relieved, when her eye was caught by a lady – no, scratch that, an _incredibly pretty_ lady, who smiled encouragingly. Merlyn grinned back, fedling something strange unfold in her chest. Heartburn, perhaps. Seeing her momentary distraction, Arthur lunged with a broom, striking her stomach and throwing her to the ground. Disorientated and winded, she nonetheless swept the Crown Prat’s legs out from underneath him.

They grappled on the ground, each landing blows (although Merlyn seemed to give less and receive more), when Arthur punched her in the jaw.

Everything went-

-Merlyn opened her eyes, looked up and saw the smug prince standing over her, victory painted on every feature. She groaned as guards began to come move towards her, no doubt arrest intent on their minds, when Arthur held up a hand. She blinked groggily, confused.

“Let him go. He may be an idiot, but he’s a brave one.” Arthur shook his finger at her prone form. “There’s something about you, Merlyn, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.” As he left, Merlyn stared sourly at his retreating back. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact she was female. She shut her eyes, entirely content to lay crumpled on the dirt path forever.

A shadow fell across her face, and she forced an eye open, then the other. The pretty woman who had caught her attention earlier was standing over her, much like Arthur had. A dark hand was reached out, and Merlyn took it gratefully as her unknown helper pulled her to her feet.

“Come on, let’s get you up.” Merlyn had only ever had honey a few times, but this- this _vision’s_ voice was exactly how she remembered it, smooth, and as warm and golden as the sun. “I’m Guinevere, but my friends call me Gwen.” Gwen. Even her _name_ was beautiful.

“I’m Merlyn,” she muttered, feeling the blush begin around her ankles and start to rise. Then, remembering common courtesy, “pleased to meet you, Guinevere.” The other looked at her kindly, if not a little reproachfully.

“I was suggesting we be friends.” Merlyn’s heart skipped several beats, and had a feeling in her stomach resembling indigestion, although much less unpleasant.

“Oh. Um. Thank you.”

“After all, it’s not every day someone gets in a fight with Prince Arthur.” Merlyn took a resolute step forward, and stumbled as her treacherous knees gave out. Gwen caught her, offering her jacket back and, as Merlyn straightened unsteadily, an arm of support.

“I can take you to the court physician if you like, Merlyn.”

“No, you don’t _-ow-_ need to, I’m fine, I can assure you - _Ah bugger it all._ ” she managed, swaying unsteadily. Gwen raised an eyebrow.

“…Right.” Merlyn didn’t ask where Gwen was leading her, but she suspected it was exactly where she had denied needing to go to. Gwen chatted to her, to other people she knew on the street (to say they stopped and stared a bit was like saying thunder wasn’t terrifying).

“I think what you did was very brave – so did a lot of people.”

“Stupid, more like,” Merlyn grumbled.

“Why did the prince challenge you? Did you _really_ slap him with a fish yesterday, or was that mere idle rumour I heard?” Merlyn felt the blush reach her face and continue on to her ears.

“Uh, yeah, that was me.” Gwen grinned at her, slightly gobsmacked.

“ _Why?_ ”

“He was bullying one of the serving boys. I thought I should try and stop him.” Merlyn’s tone became petulant. “Anyway, everyone I’ve ever met here goes on about _Prince Arthur,_ and how he’s supposed to be a ‘great tactical leader,’ and everything, when he can’t even see what’s under – or maybe above – his own damned nose.” Merlyn pouted. “The idiot thinks I’m _male.”_ The other stopped, and Merlyn, unbalanced as she was, almost succeeded in cracking her skull on the paving stones. (Not that it was unusual for her to be so clumsy, though.) Gwen turned to face Merlyn, looking her up and down.

“I suppose at first glance you do come across as a bit boyish, what with the short hair and all…” Gwen’s voice trailed off, and Merlyn tried to look indignant and failed in the face of beauty. “But I really don’t see how anyone could think that after spending more than half a minute with you.” Then the barricade of Merlyn’s shy embarrassment was broken, and the pair began to talk animatedly, touching on the topics of Gwen’s employment (maid-servant to the ward of the King and a seamstress in her spare time, to which Merlyn's only response was, 'I can, uh, weave') and her family (mother dead, father a metalsmith, little brother off somewhere doing who-knows-what). Eventually, the conversation turned to Merlyn.

“What about you?” Gwen asked.

“What?” Eloquent. Such a way with words.

“Your family, Merlyn.”

“Um. My father left Mam when she was pregnant with me.”

“Do you have any brothers? Sisters?”

_Yes._

“No.”

 _Liar,_ her disloyal mind whispered. _You had Nida._

Guinevere smiled at her, trying to cover the lull in conversation and pulling Merlyn back to the here and now. She returned it, but it was tight. Strained.

_There had been so much fire._

The thought came out of nowhere, and Merlyn reached for the necklace unthinkingly. Not, a part of her noticed, for the _ebed_ in her pocket as she should in times of need and comfort, but for a homemade trinket. She wondered if that counted as worshiping false idols. Probably.

But: _Why now?_ She asked the cavernous depths of her consciousness. Predictably, there was no reply. There were two charms threaded through a silver chain that must have cost a fortune, one silver, the other polished timber. Both in the shape of coins, but only one of them actually so. Her fingers found what she sought; the wooden imposter.

There was a letter on each side. Her mother, who could read, had told her what they were, long before she'd learnt to weave. Merlyn would give no credit to _that man_ for teaching her _anything_ but being a cold-hearted snake _._

G, for Ganieda. M, for Merlyn. Or Gwenddydd and Myrddin, if you weren’t a God-fearing, law-abiding person. Like... Like... _the man who took you in and raised you?_ The _man,_ she told herself sharply, who had _taken_ her from her mother.

 _‘Myrddin, my dear little lionheart,_ ’ was what her mother would whisper to her when she was small, coming home crying because the older boys in the village had had a laugh at her expense, because she was _strange,_ and _stupid,_ and _different._ And then Nida had gone away, and Merlyn had accompanied, because where her sister went, she would too. They had been schooled and raised in a castle, with servants to attend their every need, and _running water,_ of all things. Everything they could ever want for was supplied by Nida’s father. But where her sister had been blinded by love, Merlyn could see through her hatred, and she peered at the cracks, and hit them to see if they could smash. Many beatings and four years later, and she was still hesitant to talk out of turn to her elders, to not be automatically deferential. She was told to be _grateful._

And then, to put it frankly, she killed her sister, her own flesh and blood. Merlyn shivered, too lost in memories to hear what Gwen was saying.

_Don’t go where I can’t follow._

How naïve she had been back then, before the world had turned to ash and taken Nida with it. And so Merlyn had run, run as far as she could, and then a little more, before collapsing beneath a tree and falling into fitful unconsciousness. When she awoke, she was in a Druidic camp. They had called her _Emrys,_ and she had been confused, for here was another name, and she didn’t understand how it fit in with the other three. And so she had been passed along from camp to camp, until one kindly soul had escorted her back into Ealdor. Her mother had cried, and thanked the old man, and cried some more. And when Hunith had called her Myrddin, she, Merlyn, had screamed. Because she had been told, for four long, miserable years, that Myrddin was not her name. And so her mother never spoke it again. Because she was a good little Christian girl, _wasn’t she,_ not a pagan dancing around mad and naked as she was the day of her birth _. Isn’t that right,_ Merlyn? _Bridget?_ She was a good little girl who said her prayers every night, and went to chapel, and thanked God, and still celebrated her ‘heathen rituals’ quietly in the dead of night. Merlyn. They had named her after a _bird. Merlyn._ And a goddess. Bridget. But they couldn't give her her own name. Bridget. Merlyn. Bridget was too close, too close, but Merlyn, if she called herself Merlyn she could tread the line, but not overstep it. Merlyn. _Merlyn_.

“…Rlyn? Merlyn?”

“Huh?” Merlyn jerked out of her thoughts. They were standing in front of a pockmarked door with a sign over it, displaying the words ‘Court Physician’. Merlyn felt her stomach drop out of her shoes and into the courtyard below, and she grasped the small coin pouch hidden beneath her tunic. A few pennigs, a crown or two, and other miscellaneous, low-value coins.

Damn.

“No, Gwen, it’s fine, really-” the other tentatively pushed it open.

“Uh, Gaius?” She said. “It’s me. Gwen.” There was no reply. Gwen raised her voice slightly. “Gaius, are you here?” There was a crash, and someone fell backwards off a gallery. Before she could do anything, before she even had time to _think,_ Merlyn felt her eyes flash gold, and the old man’s descent slowed. He hit the floor, a little harder than she meant to let him, but that was the least of her worries. Gwen stared, first at the person heaving himself up with the aid of a table corner, and then at Merlyn, who immediately assumed a nonchalant expression.

“Did you see that?” Gwen asked in a tight whisper. Merlyn shook her head.

“See what?”

_Oh God Oh God she knows she’s figured it out I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to-_

“The- it’s- how he-” Gwen gave up. “Nothing.” But as she left (after checking Gaius was alright), she gave Merlyn a single, troubled glance as the door swung shut.

“Alright,” says Gaius, and he’s looking straight at her, straight through her, straight into her tarnished soul. “I think we need to talk.” Merlyn blinked, terror twisting within her. She took a step back hurridly.

“It’s nothing- I mean, it’s not what you think it was, I don’t have magic I swear, I didn’t do anything, it wasn’t me, I wasn’t there, please don’t tell anyone-” she gabbled, but Gaius held up his hand to stop her rushed denial.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” the physician said slowly, and Merlyn sagged against the doorframe with relief. “I just want to know how you _did_ it.”

Ah. That was going to take a little more explaining. Merlyn’s mind turned over and over, trying to think how she could worm her way out of this one.

“Don’t lie to me, please.”

Well then.

“Uh,” Merlyn said, twisting the fabric of her too-big tunic, “you see, the thing is…” Oh, to Hell with it. “I, uh, have… magic. Yep. Sorry. You probably guessed that. Sorry.” The old man looked curious.

“Did you incant a spell in your mind?” Merlyn frowned in confusion. “Perhaps not. Instinctive magic,” he mused, more to himself. “I have only ever heard of it in Druid legend.” Gaius looked at her. “What’s your name?”

 _That_ was the last thing she expected to be said. A shout calling the guards? Entirely likely. A polite questioning of her name? Not so much.

“S-sorry?”

“What’s your name? What do people call you?”

_That, my good man, are two entirely different matters._

“Ah, Merlyn, sir.”

“Well, Miss Merlyn, if you would come and take a seat, I shall tend to your injuries.” He looked her up and down as she settled herself on a bench, his eyebrow raised. “Of which there appear to be many.”

“No, I-I’m quite alright, thank you. Gwen just made me come. There’s nothing wrong with me that won’t heal soon.”

“What’s happened to your arm?” He asked suddenly. Merlyn stared.

“How did you- I mean-”

“I’m a physician, and I’ve been one for a very long time. What happened?”

“I was… robbed in an alleyway my first night here, and the buggers twisted my arm behind my back to hold me in place while they discovered that I own absolutely nothing of value.” She rattled on. “Do you know, I’ve never seen an alleyway before. My mam told me about them once, said her brother lived in a place that was big enough to have them. They’re darker and narrower than I thought they would be, but the only comparison I really have is the main road through the village back home.” Merlyn looked up at Gaius’ slightly non-plussed expression, one she often found on the faces of people when they heard her ramble for the first time. “Sorry, I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Not that I’m nervous, though,” she corrected hastily. “I’m not nervous at all.”

I see.” He rolled her sleeve up, gently prodding points on her arm. Merlyn winced. “What’s your name?” She jumped.

“I told already, sir, it’s-”

“What people call you. What you did there is what’s known as a ‘lie of omission’.”

“So?”

“I also wish to know your name.”

Well, _this_ man like poking his nose where it didn’t belong, no mistake. (Admittedly, so did she, but that wasn’t the point.) But he was sharper than a knife, apparently. Merlyn screwed her nose up as his finger landed upon a particularly touchy spot. In the words of Will, ‘well, to hell with it all’.

“It’s Myrddin, sir. Myrddin Wyllt.”

“And which would you prefer me call you?” Huh. Nobody had ever asked her that before. Merlyn chewed her lip thoughtfully for some time, trying to decide.

“My name, if you please." Merlyn swung her legs idly, the sound of the souls of her boots scuffing the floor filling the silence. "Can you read minds or something?” she asked. Gaius clapped his hands together.

“No minds, just people.” As Merlyn puzzled over how one was meant to read a person, he added, “your arm’s broken, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to set it; hold still now.” He took her arm in both hands, and pushed. She blanched.

_“Ow.”_

“Sorry.” As Gaius gathered the materials for a splint, Merlyn tilted her head on one side.

“How did you know I hadn’t given you my real name?” The old man paused to consider this.

“It was guesswork, mostly, but I could see it in the way you hesitated just before you said it was Merlyn.” He waited a moment, looking at her curiously. Yes, he thought, it was all there, in the expression and the angle of the head, and the way she scrunched up her nose. “Tell me, Myrddin, how is Hunith getting along?” There was a thump from behind him as Merlyn fell off the bench she had been seated upon.

“How did you- Oh, you _can_ read minds, for sure. Or something.” Gaius shook his head, smiling slightly.

“Again, only an educated guess. No, it just struck me as odd that you should resemble my sister so closely.”

“Your _sister?_ My _mother_ is your _sister?_ Are we even talking about the same person?”

“Hunith Wyllt, about yea high, brown hair, blue eyes, likes the colour green… Yes, I think so. We share the same patronymic, after all.” Merlyn threw her one working hand in the air as Gaius bandaged and splinted the other, and, for no particular reason other than the sudden wish to vent, spoke thusly.

“I knew it, this place is a madhouse. Mind readers who turn out to be one's uncle and lie about reading minds, uh, no offence, I'm just not convinced, fishmongers who protect and praise the knights despite the fact that they suck... bonkers, the lot of you.”

“Well now, I wouldn’t say _bonkers…_ ”

“Have you _met_ your king?” Merlyn’s nose wrinkled as a new thought occurred to her. “Have you met his _son?_ ” Gaius went quiet.

“I would advise you not to say such things so freely, Myrddin.”

“…Why?”

“It’s treason.” Merlyn relaxed.

“Oh, _that._ Whatever. My entire _existence_ is treason, so I thought, what’s the point in bothering about it?” She saw her (apparent) uncle’s expression and relented.

“Oh, _fine._ I’ll be careful. Er, careful-er?” Gaius nodded, satisfied. She fumbled for the coin pouch, pressing it into his hand. “Um, I’m pretty sure it’s not enough to cover the fee, but it’s all I have. At the moment, that is. I could, uh, help you out to make up for the rest?” Gaius nodded again.

“Very well. I expect you to be here tomorrow by the eighth bell.” Merlyn grinned.

“You can count on it.”

*

Merlyn was, to put it plainly, hungry. She had given Gaius the last of her coin (it seemed only right), and now she had no access to food. Not if she wanted to remain a ‘loyal and upstanding citizen’ and not have a guilty conscience over spoiled milk (or stolen bread, as it were). So, she was sitting in a darkened corner of _The King’s Kneecap,_ brooding. And starving.

Her eye was caught by a handsome man taking a large plate piled high with foodstuffs from a counter, and her stomach rumbled. Wasn’t there a saying that went _‘take from the mouths of the fed and give it to the mouths of the hungry’?_ She was sure of it. Moving quickly, Merlyn rose from her seat, and moved for the staircase that lead to her room, making sure to brush heavily past the man and grab a pastry and an oatcake off his plate. Surely it wouldn’t be missed. His money pouch had been a temptation, yes, but that was going too far, even for her.

She ran up the rough-hewn stairs, and collapsed onto the wooden pallet she slept on, cramming the meagre meal into her mouth, when someone knocked at her door. Merlyn hesitated, then spread her awareness out as the rattling became more insistent. Two men with a suspicious smell about them, plus the pretty one she had stolen from. The thugs were heavyset, with mean looks in their piggy little eyes. Henchmen, no doubt.

By the time the door had been kicked down, there was no-one in the small space. The first man looked around angrily at the bare room. He growled, kicking over her neat pack. Merlyn retracted her awareness, breathing heavily as she clung to the eaves of the building by one hand. Once she was sure they had left, she dropped to the cobbles and slipped away into the night, rubbing at new bruises.

Merlyn sauntered down the lamp-lit street, hunger somewhat abated, when a cry rose up.

“There!”

“Don’t just stand there, grab the kid!” She wondered idly at who was being chased, when a heavy hand landed her shoulder.

Apparently, it was her. Merlyn looked into the grim face of one of the older knights. She recognised him, for he had arrested her that second night in Camelot. He had not, however, born witness to either of her interactions with the prince. She liked Sir Leon. He was sensible and kind, and quick-witted when he wished to be.

Now though, his countenance was dark. Merlyn attempted a smile, although she suspected it looked more like a grimace.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said, and it was clear that he was. Sir Leon and a few of the city guard pushed through the crowd that had begun to form, towards the castle keep. Merlyn looked up at the higher windows and made eye contact with none other than Arthur Pendragon. When he saw her glaring up at him, he disappeared from sight. She sighed. This day just kept getting better and better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ebed - like a rosary. Were rosaries invented around 1000 CE? yes. is this set around 500 CE? yes. do i care? also yes but shhhh  
> Come talk to me on tumblr, @maethepencildragon , where I occasionally debunk BBC Merlin and make memes!


	5. A Conversation With Destiny and The Voice That Refuses to Leave Merlyn Be (In Her Own Head, Too!); A Name to The Face, and a Chat On Cultural Differences; A Very Brief Working Period and Another Act of Defenestration; The Lady Morgana and her Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur has a chat with Merlyn in the dungeons. Merlyn lies. Several times. Merlyn helps Gaius for a while, then throws herself out a window (again), for the exact same reason as last time.  
> I held up to my promise; Merlyn meets Morgana! Next chapter miiiigghhhtttt be the end of epidode 1, but we shall see.  
> (Also, I use this here map, https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037453 . Pretty bloody good, so be sure to check bit out, folks)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (these titles are getting out of hand)  
> k so I said to someone in the comments that I'd update in about a week, but then school went back to actual school instead of online and I have like a million assessments, so sorry, have a rubbish chapter as compensense.  
> Morgana and Gwen are just. <3\. I love them (WITH ALL MY HEART)  
> (my tumblr is @maethepencildragon if anyone wants to chat or look at rlly dumb merlin memes and hear occasional rants. [actually, i've only done one, involving kilgharrah and a crap ton of curses])  
> Sorry for the long note, YEET.

Merlyn stared down at the bowl of stew and half loaf of bread in her hands, then back at the nervous young guard standing on the opposite side of the bars.

“So what you’re saying, is that because it’s Sabbath day, I, a prisoner, am getting a free meal out of what, the goodness of your hearts?” There was the soft sound of footfall, coming closer. Merlyn tilted her head, but didn’t change her overall position. Whoever was walking - stopped.

“S-something approximating that, yes.”

“And you’re not making this up? I’m not getting hanged and this is my ‘hearty last meal’ or something?”

“That remains to be seen,” said a new voice, stepping out of the shadows. Merlyn hunched over slightly, and, after the boy on duty ripped off a hasty salute, touched her forelock languidly with her left hand and tore into the stew. The guard fled. Finally, when her meal was complete, Merlyn looked up at the intruder and heaved a hefty sigh.

“I _am_ going to be hanged, aren’t I? You and your father are the only ones who can decree an execution that isn’t a lynching, correct? You’re just here to be supercilious or something? I have to pay for my own burial? I got no money, mate."

“Er, yes. To the second one. How did you know?” Merlyn ignored him.

“Why are you here?” Arthur drew himself up.

“ _I_ am the Prince of Camelot and I can go wherever I damn well please.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Try again, buddy. Why else would you be so _adamant_ that I’m not going to dance the hempen jig?” Her visitor leaned against a wall in an effort to make himself comfortable.

“Because I’m… intrigued,” he admitted. “Tell me, where you always so criminally active, or did that only begin recently?” Merlyn blushed, casting her gaze to the floor.

“Not… on purpose,” she said, and it was true. She hadn’t _meant_ to be the cause of arson, nor had she purposely murdered two people. “Actually, before I came to Camelot I was-”

“Merely a scheming mastermind?” Had he just made a _joke?_ Although she tried to stop it, Merlyn felt a grin lift the corners of her mouth.

“While I’m flattered you think me devious, what I was _going_ to say before you interrupted me was that I was naught but a simple country girl.” She sighed dramatically. “And then I was _corrupted_ by the big, bad city. Terrible thing, huh?” Arthur, however, was staring as though she had just dropped a tree on his head, a prospect that was looking rather attractive.

“You’re-”

“Female? Yes. _You’re_ not particularly observant, I note.” Arthur gave a short bark of laughter, and against all probability, Merlyn found she was _enjoying_ herself, in the company of one she hated, no less. Oh Lady Luck, your gifts are bloody strange, she thought. But if this was going to get her out of a hanging, then she would play along. It was never wise to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Really? Well, I _observed_ that you must be far from simple, whatever you claim, to use a _big word_ like ‘supercilious’.” Merlyn’s smile fell for a moment, and she went cold. “And, of course, I couldn’t forget how you told me that we had been calling our _pillories_ the wrong thing for the last twenty years or so.”

“What can I say?” She shrugged, putting on a haughty demeanour. “I had a very good education.” And hadn’t she just. “Part of it was learning how to deal with obnoxious prats, is all. Now, if I’m not going to be hanged, you could at least tell me why.” A carefully blank expression settled over Arthur’s face, and when he spoke again, his voice was suddenly much more regal, more commanding. _His prince-voice,_ Merlyn found herself thinking, and resisted the urge to laugh hysterically.

“You have been charged with theft by one of the richer merchants of the city.” Merlyn’s jaw dropped open.

“It was _one pastry,_ ” she protested. Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Fine, I took an oatcake too. A _small_ one,” she added sulkily. Arthur raised an eyebrow. “If it’s any comfort, I felt guilty while I et it.”

“You claim you had no money," Arthur prompted. Merlyn frowned.

“I don’t _have_ a coin pouch anymore. I gave it to Gaius. You can ask him.” She squinted at Arthur, mind working. “‘Cept there’s one in my pack, right? You think I put it there, right?” Arthur shifted.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Look, we’ve heard Lord Trillo’s side of the story-" _Now she had a name to the face,_ "-and even if you do get a hearing you won’t get to give yours. If you tell me now, I might be able to help.” Merlyn played with the wooden spoon, twisting in in her fingers. Oh _great._ If he helped her she would owe him. Merlyn _hated_ owing things to people, especially ones she was trying to, well, hate. On the other hand, if he helped her, she would live to see another day, which was something of a priority.

“I paid the last of my coin to the Court Physician to splint my arm, ‘cos it got broken,” she began reflectively, although there was an added mutter along the lines of _“Could’ve gone to a herb-woman, but noooo, Gwen just_ had _to take me to the man who turned out to be my bloody uncle!”_ She glared at Arthur for something to do as she assembled her thoughts. “Uh, nicked the food off this chappie’s plate, right, ran upstairs to the room I rent, heard someone try and kick the door down, and I thought, do I want to live? Uh, _Yes._ I decided I didn’t really want to hang around and see what they wanted, so I jumped out the window.” She smiled at Arthur sunnily. “No bags of gold involved, _omnino._ ” Arthur, however, looked like he was in pain (or thinking, Merlyn couldn’t tell which).

“Your arm is broken,” he managed finally. “And you jumped out of a _window?_ ”

“Yes?” Merlyn looked genuinely bewildered.

 _"Why?"_ There was a moment of unimpressed silence.

"When your chances are between death and getting away safely, the choice isn't a hard one."

"But you jumped knowing you might die anyway."

"No. It wasn't high; everyone my age could do it at home." Arthur blinked. “...Do people not climb around here?” Merlyn asked tentatively.

“No.” Silence descended, but Arthur seemed curious. “What kinds of things would they climb?”

“Buildings, trees, that sort of thing.” Merlyn rubbed her chin. “‘Course, I haven’t jumped that far in a long time. And never onto stone.” She looked up. “Why does your city have so much _stone?_ How do you feel the earth?”

“Feel… the earth? How do you feel the earth?” Arthur’s face darkened. “It’s not _magic_ , is it?” Merlyn’s eyes widened. She’d always assumed that everyone could hear the metaphysical heart of the earth each time they touched soil, or could listen to the secrets of the trees as the winds blew. Apparently not.

“Magic? Nay, we in my village spit on magic. It is a foul, cursed sickness. That is why my mother sent me to Camelot, so that I may learn more of the admirable ways you fight against sorcery.” While the first part had been true (sort of), the second… hadn’t. “But we in my village are sensitive to nature, see? We are close to the earth, which I must say, is helpful for choosing when harvest and hunt.” She had closed her eyes at some point, an almost beatific expression on her thin face, but now she opened them, staring straight at Arthur. “We give and we receive, and we thank the earth.” She held up a hand as he began to ask another question. She was on a roll now, spilling lies left and right. “Do not worry. We are not of the Old Religion in Ealdor. We are... well, I'm not entirely sure, but most of us believe in the one true God, myself included.” More correctly, she _feared_ the one true God as one should, and also suspected that he wasn’t the only deity out there, as did the rest of the village. Arthur looked rather mesmerised.

“Your accent just changed.”

“I’m sure I don’t know- I _dunno_ what you’re talking about.”

“No, it did,” he insisted. “One moment you have a country accent as wide as- as- as a field, the next you sound like you were raised in court!”

“You must be imagining things.”

“No, I’m not. Why did your accent change?” Merlyn stretched her left hand experimentally, noting the restriction in movement.

“Uh-uh, don’t think so, _pal_.” There. Now she sounded like an Ealdor peasant once again, and nothing at all had happened. Damn! She’d have to watch how she spoke so a slip-up like that didn’t happen again. “No, you’ve asked me questions, and now it’s my turn. That’s how these things work, see?” Arthur nodded in acquiescence.

“Very well, what is it you wish to know?”

“Why the Prince of Camelot is holding a prolonged conversation with a would-be petty thief about cultural differences. You’ve asked your questions, and you could leave at any time, so why are you staying?” The aforementioned prince appeared to consider this.

“Like I said, I’m intrigued. I’ve known you for, what, two days? In that time you have… hit me with a rather disgusting fish-”

 _“Your fault,”_ Merlyn muttered rebelliously. Arthur ignored her.

“-Insulted me numerous times, been thrown in the stocks- sorry, _pillories,_ corrected me on the name of said device in front of a crowd, which in itself could've resulted in a death sentence-”

_“Not my fault you ruddy fools didn’t know the proper name for your favourite torture instrument.”_

“-Fought me with both flail and fist-”

 _“Most_ definitely _your fault.”_

“ _And_ gotten yourself arrested for both assault on the heir of the throne and stealing from one of the richest men in the city and been accused of attacking two knights of Camelot. That was in _two days._ ” Merlyn went to object, but Arthur continued to speak. Louder.

“Of course, prior to that you have been arrested separately at _least_ three times for instigating tavern brawls, broken your arm, and been placed in protective custody after ‘getting on the nerves’ of a murderer. How long did you say you’d been in Camelot again?” Merlyn scowled.

“I _hadn’t,_ but since you ask, a sennight, or thereabouts.”

“You’re very sure you weren’t- you _aren’t_ a devious mastermind?”

“Positive.”

“Or a thief?”

“Like I said, would-be and petty. No bags of gold, sire! Anyways, me Mam raised me too honest for that.” _Besides,_ he _taught her much slyer ways you could swindle a man, for a lot more, and legally, too. One bag of gold indeed!_

 _Myrddin…_ Intoned the voice in her head. She suppressed a groan, instead opting to discretely massage her temples. Merlyn smiled brightly.

“Well, Your Highness, if you don’t mind, I wish to sleep before I’m hanged.” But if she was any judge of how their conversation had progressed, that wouldn’t be happening just yet. Arthur’s next words confirmed it.

“I won’t let that happen.”

“Really?” She pulled her jacket closer around her shoulders and burrowed into the mouldy straw, yawning.

“Yes. Something doesn’t add up, and it is my duty to get to the bottom of this.” He pushed himself off the wall easily, striding away. Merlyn sat in the gloominess where the light of the torch didn’t reach, her lips pursed. She had a lot to think about.

“Your highness?” Arthur’s silhouette paused, half-turning, just as he was that morning they met.

“Yes?”

“Just… Thank you.” He nodded, once and slowly, and continued on his way. Well, _that_ had been sincere, at least. She didn’t have to _like_ the prat, just put up with him until her neck was safe (hah!). _They’re all the same, Lyn,_ Will had said. _Power-hungry and blood-thirsty. You meet one, you meet them all. Promise me,_ promise me _if you ever get the choice you will stay far away from those with noble blood._ And then she had gone away and he had been right. The only outlier, it seemed, was this prince. Before she could contemplate this further, the irritating voice called her name once more.

_Myrddin…_

_Go to buggery,_ she snapped back, as much as one could snap while speaking mentally. There was a pause, and she had the feeling the other awareness was contriving to be affronted. She scoffed. It could be affronted all it liked, as long as it wasn’t in her head.

 _You have a destiny, young witch. You must fulfil it, or all will be lost._ Merlyn lay back, staring at the ceiling. She was having a conversation with something in her mind (again!).

“Not interested,” she mumbled, wondering if it could still hear her. Come to that, she wondered if the thing even _listened._

_You cannot escape your fate, as surely as you cannot escape your magic. Without you, Arthur will never succeed. There will be no Albion._

“Don’t care.”

 _But you will. The prophecies foretell it. When all is said and done, you will weep, Myrddin, and perhaps then you will think back to this conversation._ Merlyn chewed her lip at this new proclamation.

“Alright,” she conceded, “but I don’t see why destiny has anything to do with me. I am a peasant girl, nothing more, and I really, _really_ am not fond of the prince in this present moment. I don’t think I ever will be.” There was a pause.

_You are the greatest magic user to ever walk the earth. The prophecies speak of this. And Arthur faces many threats from friend and foe alike._

“Wonder why?” She asked sarcastically. The other ignored this. “See, if anyone wants to kill him, they can sure as hells go ahead.” She perked up as a new thought occurred. “I would even give them a hand, if I didn’t owe him. Fine. They can kill him _after_ I pay him back.” And she _did_ owe him. How incredibly frustrating. “I’d like to avoid the whole destiny thing, if you don’t mind.”

_That is not possible, young witch. It is your duty to protect and serve him._

Merlyn, on the whole, vehemently despised being called ‘Myrddin’ by this unknown entity, and she wasn’t too sure about ‘young witch’, either. But that was fine. She could divert her energy into being sulky and petulant instead.

“Why _not?”_

 _You will find,_ Merlyn, _that none of us can choose our destiny, and none of us can escape it._ And there was nothing more. She groaned, and rolled over, glaring at the rough-hewn wall. And although it came slow, and her path through the night was oft concealed by treachery and night-terrors, she went to sleep.

When Merlyn looked out the barred window the following morning, there was no gibbet awaiting her. No chopping block, no pyre, and something tight in her chest that she hadn’t been aware of released.

The bells tolled their doleful chime for seven and half-hour, and she realised with a start that she had places to be. Merlyn went to beckon a guard, but he was already strolling over, keys in one hand.

“I need to-” she began, but he waved her explanation away.

“His highness said you were to be let out this morning,” he told her glumly, as though he thought the orders of the prince of Camelot were foolish, but didn’t dare say so.

“Did he say why?” The guard shrugged.

“Not my business, Miss. Have a good day.” She nodded at him, scrambling up and away.

The first thing Merlyn did was sidle into the _Kneecap_ and retrieve her belongings. They had been spilled everywhere, but the doll was still present. She hugged it close, relieved, and placed it carefully in the torn pack, which, in turn, was tied up in her blanket. Satisfied, she made her way up to the Physician’s chambers (and losing her way only thrice), knocking on the door just as eight struck, and so the day began.

While Merlyn was by no means medically trained, she was useful in the scaling-tall-ladders-to-reach-elusive-books department, even with a broken -ahem, _fractured_ \- arm. Preparing utilitarian things like fresh bandages and boiling medical instruments to clean them were not beyond her, and she found herself falling into a comfortable rhythm.

Of course, this is a story. One thing will follow another, bad will chase good, the hero thinks all is well and proceeds to be murdered by a porcupine. Stranger things have happened, although I never heard of them.

Merlyn emerged from the supply room, saw the large, beefy man and his plus-twos that could only be bodyguards of a sort, squeaked, and darted back in, slamming the door behind her. She peered through a slit in the wood, and saw, to her rising dread, the three make their way inexorably towards her. Looking around wildly for escape, there was only one option. As Gaius called her name, she vaulted through the window.

I might say that history repeats itself, except people have a habit of finding coincidences where there are none, and making them something more. But, in this instance, it did. She fled the merchant-man by defenestrating herself two days in a row. (You _could_ call it destiny, but on that matter, we shall see).

In a million different universes, Merlyn flung out her hand too late, missed the rooftop and fell from the tower to the cobbles below, making a sound scientifically known as _splat._ In a million different universes, this is a rather short tale. In _this_ one, however, Merlyn lived (for the time being, at least.) Heart pumping wildly in her ears, she half-crawled, half-rolled her way onto stabler tiling, and began to run. While her arm was splinted, her fingers and most of her hand were free, and having two hands makes scaling sheer castle walls much easier.

But, inevitably, the inevitably happened, and she fell. It seemed that indeed fate _did_ have an interest in her, or Lady Luck decided to be a decent chap for once and hand out worthwhile gifts, for again Merlyn grabbed a ledge and didn’t commit splattery.

The problem was… Well, where to begin?

1) It was the ledge of an open window.

2) She was in full view of the square, but thankfully no-one had yet seemed to notice her.

3) The decision to wear a kirtle, surcote and apron was made without the knowledge she would be climbing buildings, although she had worn her hose underneath to keep her legs warm, which was a blessing.

4) Said open window appeared to be the open window of a very rich and nobby lady.

5) Gwen had just walked in.

She could deal with the others, (although the indecency of hitching her skirts up so they were above her knee would haunt her in years to come), but having the woman she... liked very much catch her in an embarrassing situation yet _again_ was a bit to much. Indeed, in all the shock and surprise, she almost released her tenuous grip. Gwen dropped the dresses she had been carrying, and rushed over, pulling Merlyn up and into safety, just as a dark-haired woman emerged from behind a screen. She stared first at Merlyn, and then Gwen, and back to Merlyn. Merlyn heaved a sigh. Why did _all_ of Camelot's women have to be so _pretty?_

“Why are you in my chambers?” She demanded. Merlyn flashed her a quick smile in an attempt to pacify her, which was met with a stony glare.

“Ah, um, funny story, actually-” she was cut off by a thunderous knocking at the door. The woman strode over, wrenching it open.

“Yes?” She snapped tersely. In the corridor there seemed to be half a regiment in Camelot red. Merlyn began to edge backwards towards the window, but Gwen's hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist.

“Lady Morgana,” the man at the front greeted. Merlyn curled her lip at the oily-looking man. He _gleamed._ Dirty blond hair slicked down, and an expression of a man who thinks he knows what a woman wants, and that it's him. Behind him stood Sir Leon, who was definitely not rolling his eyes. “Somebody was seen climbing through your window chambers. We fear it was a dangerous criminal attempting to harm you. She stands behind you, my lady. Do not be fooled by a beguiling face.” The Lady Morgana turned; one perfect eyebrow was raised in question. Merlyn shrugged.

“I think, Captain, that you are perhaps mistaken. This girl here I employ as a weaver, although what she was doing scaling the castle I can only guess.” Merlyn felt her jaw drop, and hastily turned her head, pretending to sneeze to cover up her surprise. This lady was lying, to a captain of the guard, no less, for a possibly harmful stranger who has just crawled through her window. Gee.

“‘Twas a dare, m'lady,” Merlyn said, thickening her accent as she did so. “I’m offal sorry, but Mary in the kitchens told me if I di’n’t do it she would put _spiders_ ain me supper. I don’t like spiders, m'lady. They gives me the heebie-jeebies.” Lady Morgana nodded ever so slightly at the men in front of her, as if the hastily strung-together explanation checked out. Meanwhile, Merlyn was desperately avoiding the eye of Sir Leon, who was attempting not laugh.

“Thank you. Very well, Captain, you are dismissed.” When they had gone, the woman turned to Merlyn.

“Can you weave?”

“Pardon? Oh, yes, my lady.”

“And are you in need of employment?”

“Uh, yes, my lady.” Lady Morgana clapped her hands.

“Wonderful. You’re hired. Would you like to accompany Gwen and I to the-” she grimaced, “- _celebrations?_ I hear there is a fair today.”

“Uh, yes, my lady. My lady?”

“Yes, - what was your name? I fear I didn’t catch it.”

“Merlyn, my lady. Um, what, that is, um, what I have I been hired to do?” The lady looked surprised.

“Why, weave, of course!”

“O-oh. Um.” They traversed through the corridors and stairs. Actually, Morgana led them, Gwen right behind her, and Merlyn was left with the choice of following them or climbing back out the window. She followed them.

“Merlyn. Merlyn. Merlyn,” Lady Morgana mused to herself.

“Uh, yes, my lady?” She waved a pale hand.

“Just wondering where I’ve heard your name before.”

“I, uh, got arrested a few times? Petty thief, uh,” she tried to remember her apparent crimes and doings Arthur had listed off the previous night. “I told the Prince he was calling the stocks the wrong thing.” Her lips quirked in a smile. “‘Course, before that, I hit ‘im with a fish.” The lady snapped her fingers.

“Of course! Arthur was complaining about you for _days_. It was rather amusing." She affected a voice, obviously mimicking the prince. "'Stop laughing, Morgana. It's _not funny,_ Morgana.' It was, though. And then,” Lady Morgana frowned, “he stopped, and began to meet with our librarian, Sir Geoffrey Monmouth. Strange, that.”

“Quite, my lady,” Merlyn agreed.

“But really, I must thank you.”

“For what, my lady?”

“Bringing Arthur down a notch.” Lady Morgana tilted her head, slightly smugly. “I believe his ego still smarts. It is not often that happens, so, well done.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

The fair was bigger than Merlyn had ever seen. Jesters and a man who, for some strange reason, put weasels down his pants and was found _funny._ Men walking on tall poles were everywhere, and the sound of musicians (often inexpertly) strumming, hitting, or blowing their instruments filled the air, mingling with the general haggling of people.

Lady Morgana had almost immediately gravitated to a stall selling fine cloths. To Merlyn’s surprise, the woman held what had to be the softest material she had ever felt in her life up against her shoulder. Merlyn looked down at the cloth settling atop her neckerchief. (It was red.)

“It suits you,” she said thoughtfully. “Very well.” And Lady Morgana paid the rather delighted man behind the counter. Merlyn counted the coins – four pennigs and _twelve_ sceattas and _two pieces of gold_. Gold. Actual gold. Apparently royalty didn't want for nothing here, and nor did they seem to have any restrictions on spending. Gwen pointed quietly to a roll of purple cloth, which Lady Morgana again paid for. As they left the stall, the lady passed the red cloth to Merlyn, who took it uncertainly. It was fine and thick, wool in appearance, but much less coarse. And it had cost _two gold pieces._

“Uh, my lady, what is this?”

“A gift, Miss Merlyn. There is a tradition I used to observe with my father, long ago, and I still do it to this day.” Not exactly the answer she had been searching for, but intriguing, none the less.

“What is this tradition you speak of with such fondness, my lady?”

“To give to people who have given to you.” She grinned at Merlyn, although it had an edge. “Which is why Arthur gets nothing.”

“I’ve- I appreciate the sentiment, my lady, but, uh, I’ve not given anything to you.” Lady Morgana shook her head, mirth dancing in grey-green eyes.

“Ah, but there you are wrong. You have given me the greatest gift of all; silence. For once, Arthur is quiet, which can only be a blessing. Yes,” she said, looking at Merlyn oddly, “I think you herald great times for Camelot.” Ordinarily, Merlyn would have waved such a comment away, but it jarred against what the voice had told her the night before. So, she dipped her head.

“I believe you are correct, my lady.” Lady Morgana laughed. “My friend back home has a similar habit, although he calls it ‘them's that's getting what them's deserved’. I believe it often involved his fists. Sometimes I wonder at the miracle of his continued existence.” She tugged at the material, which had managed to get snagged on a splinter. Merlyn put it around her head, then took it off again. _"That_ can't be right. What is it?"

“It’s a scarf,” Gwen piped up.

“A... scarf,” Merlyn repeated slowly. It was a beautiful thing, long and roughly rectangular. Éire knots embroidered in gold thread ran down the edges, ending in a small dragon. “Uh, what’s it for?” Gwen laughed, and even Lady Morgana chuckled. Merlyn grinned nervously. “Is it a fancy garrotter, perhaps?” She suggested.

“ _Merlyn!_ ”

“Just asking.” She tied it around her waist. “Is _this_ what it’s for?” Gwen untied it, giggling, cheeks painted red. She then removed Merlyn’s neckerchief, stopped, and stared at the livid scar it hid.

“What happened?” Gwen asked softly, gentle fingers tracing the air above pink line.

“I, uh, fell and, uh, scratched myself on a stick.” She grinned, then winked. Really, what else was she meant to say? _Oh, a man tried to stab me, so I killed him?_ “Bit of a klutz, I am. So, what do you do with this thing?” Lady Morgana looked on with interest as Gwen threw the scarf around Merlyn’s neck, moving her hands in a complicated manner as she fastened it. Merlyn glanced down, blushing. Splashed against the plain off-white of her kirtle and brown of her surcote (and slightly darker brown of her jacket, which she refused to remove, citing the likelyhood of catching a chill), was the scarf, as red as blood.

_And when she looked down, she was bleeding. There was smoke hanging thick in the air. The corpse at her feet. She was going to die going to die going to die all alone nobody near going to die death die die like Nida just like Nida she was going to-_

Merlyn gasped, then coughed violently.

“Are you alright?” Lady Morgana asked when she straightened up again, red-faced.

“Um, yes, sorry. Breathed the wrong way, is all. Uh, thank you very much, my lady. It’s beautiful. And warm.” The sun was shining, they were celebrating a man's execution, and there was a really rather delectable concoction of aromas hanging in the air.

Alright, there were _two_ exceptions to Will's warning. Anyway, she wasn't sure she could see this kind, stately lady killing _anyone,_ ever. 

(Really, all Lady Morgana would need to do was stare at someone for over six seconds. That in itself would be terrifying enough.)

But despite herself, despite _everything,_ Merlyn was beginning to have fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bahaha FORESHADOWING
> 
> None of the characters' views (on religion, etc) are shared by the author. (except for the thing about other deities out there. I can jam with that.)  
> 


	6. The Things We Have in Common (Not Feat. Arthur)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlyn meets the kennel-boy, Keaton. Nothing else happens, except for some tiiinnnnyyyyyyyyyy hinting at future plot or smth. idk.  
> (My apologies for the pace in this chapter, it is abysmal and I am ashamed, but I couldn't figure out anything else.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeyyyy y'all, have a teensy tiny chapter while I figure out what to do next and simulataneously write/procrastinate on my history assignment due at 8.30 tommorrow.

“What are you doing here, mister?” Merlyn glanced over at the kennel-boy, then went back to fondling the ear of a greyhound.

“Take a wild guess, pal. And it’s ‘miss’, actually.”

She had spent the rest of the day with Gwen and Lady Morgana at the fair. At dusk, she traded her socks for a ruined blanket, no doubt riddled with fleas, being sold for a bargain price by an old woman with no teeth or hair. Her pack was still in the rooms of Gaius, and she didn't want to disturb him. She had slung her boots around her neck by their straps and bedded down against an alley wall for the evening, and tried to get comfortable.

Merlyn had woken in the dead of night, scratching furiously, and taken to exploring the city by means of the rooftops, eventually ending up in the kennels behind the castle. Now dawn was breaking, and she had been caught patting a dog. Oh the _scandal_.

“It appears,” the kennel-boy said, “that you are subverting the loyalties of Camelot hounds.” Merlyn flung her hand in the air dramatically.

“A right cussing upon you, o foiler of my most evil plot.” She levelled her gaze at him. “But you can’t prove anything, see, for you have no evidence. This is so because I have not reached the next step in my plan.”

“What is it?” The kennel-boy asked. Merlyn looked momentarily confused.

“What’s what?”

“The next step of your evil plot, of course.”

“Uh…” Merlyn hesitated, but not for long. “I was going to bring along meat scraps to completely sway their allegiance, until I was _thwarted.”_ The boy raised his eyebrows. “Actually,” Merlyn confided, lowering her voice to a faux-whisper, “I was exploring and got lost, but if anyone asks, I’m a…” She grinned to herself, “an evil mastermind, and you can quote me on that." Just in time, she recalled normal the normal rules of a conversation. (It is safe to say they did _not_ include introducing yourself as an evil mastermind before giving your name.) "Oh, by the way, I’m Merlyn.”

“Keaton Trillo,” he replied amiably. Merlyn stiffened.

“Trillo? Like, Lord Trillo the merchant, Trillo? Some relation of yours?” Keaton looked sheepish.

“He’s my father.” Poor bastard, she thought, and grimaced.

“So that makes you…” Keaton touched his forelock.

“The illegitimate spare to House d'Trillo.” Oh. A _literal_ bastard. Right.

“You and me both, my friend.” She paused, considering the statement. “Well, not to d'Trillo, obviously.”

“What House, then?”

“Ambrosius. Old Gawant family, very rich and nobby.” _Stupid,_ she cursed herself, _shut up, shut up!_

“I’ve not heard of them.” She scoffed.

“King Godwin doesn’t like them very much. My sister told me it had something to do with a fishing rod and a basket of perennial saplings.” Merlyn looked suddenly horrified. ‘Oh my god,” she whispered. Keaton looked up worriedly from where he was stoking the brazier.

“What?”

“I’m the bloody _heir_ to an entire goddamned duchy now! And I’m not even _related_ to the bastard!”

“How'd that happen?”

“My sister is the only child he ever had, and he couldn’t remarry because all Mam did was pull a runner and he was decent enough to respect that. And then he found us in a tiny little Essetir village and took my sister, who wouldn’t go unless I came. Long story short, he made me his ward and the spare, and then my sister went and got herself burned to death just before I turned eleven. I, uh, never really realised the implications of that.” She laughed, but there was no humour in it. “God _damn_ it, it’s taken me _five years_ to figure that out. Death’ll be knocking on the old bugger’s door soon, and then they’ll come a-looking for me. Ugh!” She kicked at a clod of earth viciously.

“You could, uh, change your name,” Keaton suggested. Merlyn chewed her lip thoughtfully, then shook her head.

“Nah, too many people know me by it already. Hey, need any help with that?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at the growling, slavering hound Keaton was trying (and failing) to keep control of. He nodded frantically.

“Yes- No, _down!_ ” His grasp on the chain slipped, and the dog leapt at Merlyn, red mouth wide agape.

“Sìos!” She snapped at it. It crashed in the dirt, and lay there obediently, just as she had instructed. Merlyn grinned. “Cù math.” Keaton pushed himself off the ground, dusting dog hair from his nose. 

“How did you…”

“Goddodin deer hound, right?” She winked at him. “I speak Pictish. That’s what they’re trained in, see. Might be a good thing to learn if you ever want to get along with this one.” Merlyn looked up in surprise as the city bells chimed eight. “Ooh, damn, gotta run.” Merlyn handed the chain back Keaton hastily, adding a terse _‘giùlan’_ , for the dog’s benefit. “Gotta go.” She vaulted over the wooden fence, pounding back towards the castle.

“Merlyn!” Keaton called after her. She looked over her shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Can you teach me Pictish?”

“Any time!” She shouted, and sprinted to the Physician’s chambers.

Four minutes and forty-nine seconds later, Gaius opened his door to reveal Merlyn, red of cheek and panting, one fist raised to knock again.

“…Mornin’,” she wheezed. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Myrddin? I thought you had left!” She straightened, rubbing her hand down her face.

“’Sa long story.” Gaius stood aside.

“Please, come in. I wish to hear all about it.” Merlyn nodded her head and strolled in, chattering all the while.

“...And then I met his _son._ Kinda nuts, right? He’s a nice guy.” And we’re both illegitimate spares to a noble house, she added silently. What are the odds?

“Very,” her uncle responded solemnly. “Now, if you’ve finished with that, I need some help in preparing a tincture for the Lady Morgana.” Merlyn perked up.

“Oh, I met her too. She bought me this scarf-thing. I thought all nobles were trash, but hey, maybe I’m wrong.” Merlyn held the thing up for inspection. “What does she need it for?”

“Nightmares. What made you believe that about nobles?” Merlyn rolled her eyes.

“The Gawantine court are _awful._ I had to spend _two years_ there, ‘til the duke and the king fell out.” She shook her head disbelievingly. “Oh the _drama._ Basket-cases, the lot of them. And then,” Merlyn lowered her voice dramatically, “ _y_ _our_ king is persecuting everyone who even walked on the same side of the path as a magic-user. And his son…” Here she frowned. “You know, I’m actually not sure about Arthur. He’s trying to get me out of hot water with d’Trillo, because it’s his, um, ‘duty to get to the bottom of this.’ I don’t understand. I _hit_ him with a _fish_ and now he’s trying to _help_ me!” She jostled a jar with her elbow, knocking it to the floor. Or, _would_ have knocked it to the floor, if her magic hadn’t stepped in and automatically caught it. Merlyn ducked under Gaius’ disapproving glare, taking the container and placing it back on the bench.

“Sorry.”

*

Far away from Camelot, something stirred in its forever-sleep. An ancient, metaphorical eye cracked open. It raised its metaphorical head, and sniffed the metaphorical air (metaphorically, of course).

It smelled the power _,_ and it _hungered._

*

A lot less far away, although still a fair distance from the city of Camelot, (somewhere in the bordering kingdom of Nemeth, to be precise), the crone known as Mary Collins stood outside Lady Helen of Mora’s tent and killed her with a poppet doll. All things considered, it was a rather rude way to murder someone, and _so_ much less glamorous. 

(Although as we continue, we shall see that it's certainly more effective. After all, why not throw a knife at a prince's head after singing a song to make the entire court fall asleep and grow cobwebs? ~~Because you'll get killed by a sixteen-year-old girl magically dropping a chandelier on your head, that's why.~~ )

Mary Collins felt the shift in the pathways of magic as she took the dead woman’s face but ignored it. After all, she reasoned, I am _here,_ and I am powerful, now. But when she picked up the mirror, the wrinkled-apple face of Thomas James Collins’ mother still looked out at her. Lady Helen, née Mary Collins, shattered it.

For as you shall see, grief makes people do terrible, _terrible_ things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eheheh love you all bye


	7. Golden Glow and Godlost Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlyn reflects on the past, sees Avalon, falls about sixty feet, begins her job and has a bath. Not necessarily in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sidles into view* ....hi? I'm really sorry about how long this took to update, but my muse buggered off to fairy land, as it were.  
> The Latin phrases come from works by Terry Pratchett.  
> For Americans and other non-Australians, gaol is the correct way of spelling jail here down south.  
> (For any of those wondering, I submitted my history assignment. The fact that it was at quarter to one in the morning is not relevant. Scored 24/25 because it wasn't formatted correctly. Yay me?)

“Should’a done it.” _Skip skip skip._

“Should’a not.” _Skip skip._

“Should’a done it.” _Plonk._ Merlyn grunted and pulled herself onto the overhang of the bank, chewing a piece of Jack By The Hedge thoughtfully. Telling Keaton about Ambrosius had seemed a good idea at the time, but the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced no good would come of it. She hadn’t been so open with anyone, _ever,_ not since Nida… died, but there had been something in Keaton’s open, honest face that had made the words spill out. After all, it had been a long time-

No. Not now.

 _In this time?_ Her mind asked mockingly, a mere shade, a mere memory of the question her sister had once asked. _In this place? Will you stand up for what you believe to be right? Will you fight back?_

How ironic, then, that Ganieda couldn’t see what had been true and false for herself.

“I can’t. Not… not yet,” Merlyn whispered to her reflection. Here in this face the ghost of a girl resides, lingering. Merlyn turned her head this way and that, trying to see her sister in her own features. Nida’s hair had been like wheat, soft and browned where Merlyn’s was dark and coarse. Nida had always been slightly plump while Merlyn resembled nothing so much as a twig. Nida had worn her heart on her sleeve, love and fury and joy shown for all who wished to see. Not fiery, for that implied a temper, but passionate. Merlyn… Well. She remembered being like that too, once. Such shows of emotion did not come so easily to her now, unless it was hidden beneath a guileless grin or blank stare, concealed in the privacy of her mind. _Children such as you should be seen and not heard,_ or so said the Duke.

Finally, she decided it must be the nose, quite straight and small. The nose and the eyes, a sharp, startling blue.

The sun trickled its light over the horizon as Merlyn began to struggle into her other cote, finally succeeding in yanking it over her smock. It was by far her favourite item of clothing, despite the fact she now owned _three_ things that were red. It was a light woollen garment she and her mother had made and coloured a pleasant shade of grey-blue with woad from Hunith's dye garden. It was worn, but serviceable. It smelt of rosemary and woodsmoke.

The earth rustled, and, too late, Merlyn tried to grab a hold of the grass as the bank disintegrated around her, sending her cannonading into the stream. The water came only came up to her knee, but the sudden change in temperature stung and burned. She waded awkwardly to a shallower area of the brook, stepping out and cursing as her skirts stuck to her legs.

Just _great._

Today began her new career as a weaver for the Lady Morgana. Deciding she was long overdue for a bathe, Merlyn had forgone what little sleep she had to sneak into Gaius' storeroom (easy), get clean clothes, find a stream (not so easy) and wash herself. The water had been icy, and Merlyn hadn’t felt particularly inclined to get a chill and potentially die, so the baths had not been long, impromptu or no. But she wasn’t feeling particularly inclined to return to Camelot just yet, with its stones blocking the voice the of the earth. One part of her said it was _stupid_ that a _building material_ made her want to throw up. Another part retorted nastily that if that was the case, talking to the earth was stupid. The largest part of all said _shut up and get out of the water before you freeze to death._ Merlyn had gone with that one.

On an impulse, Merlyn looked around for a tree to scale, sickened by the thought of stone. Many were young, whippy oaks or thin birches, but further back in the forest were the older trees. Slinging her shoes around her neck, she set off for a likely-looking one.

It was an easy climb, with plenty of handholds and knots to grasp, and soon she was high within its weathered boughs. (There had been a slightly embarrassing moment when her cote had snagged on an unseen twig, but she elected to ignore that in her pursuit for height.) The life-magic of the tree coiled and bunched beneath her hands every time she touched it, making her shudder with relief at the _openness_ of it all. Here there was no blockage of displaced magic that had built up over the years, curtailing her powers, here the only limit was the sky. Here she could be free.

There was the branch of another tree in front and slightly below her. Merlyn risked a glance down, mentally estimating how far it would be if she fell. Forty, perhaps fifty feet, she decided. But as Will had once said, _do or die, Lyn, do or die._ So she shrugged and jumped, gangly limbs scrabbling for a hold on her new perch. Eventually, she managed to gain a footing, and wobbled along the branches.

She tilted her head, expecting to hear the murmuring of the tree, expecting to hear the secrets of wood and sap and leaf, but there was nothing. The world had gone strangely silent, as though a stopper had been put over it, as though she was surrounded by layers of stone a thousand miles high. Merlyn swallowed, suddenly light-headed. Voices crowded her head, whispering and screaming and shouting indistinguishable words. Something felt off, _wrong._ Merlyn blinked. Almost as if in a dream, she watched herself let go of the branch she was hanging on to, her only life-line, crashing downwards. There was a sudden, immense pain preceding by an odd cracking sound, and then everything disappeared.

Merlyn opened her eyes. For a moment she thought she saw a city, terrible in its beauty, but then the image faded away.

Merlyn opened her eyes. She was surrounded by gold, if gold was more than a colour, if gold had scent and sensation and texture, if gold was a fully three-dimensional thing. Gold was not like its metal counterpart, which paled in comparison. It didn’t hold the cold light of coins, but it was warm and inviting. It was like a mother’s embrace. _You’re safe now,_ it seemed to say.

As soon as she thought it, Merlyn could smell rosemary and woodsmoke, touched by the scent of freshly-baked bannocks and lanolin. A figure appeared in the distance.

“Come home, my girl,” Hunith whispered, stroking her face. Gentle, calloused fingers brushed against her cheek, and Merlyn caught hold of them with her left hand instinctively, clutching them tight. She had no splint here, but neither did she seem to be human. She stared, fascinated, at her skin glowing _gold,_ deeper and realer still than that of her surroundings.

“You cannot stay here.” Shadows suddenly appeared in Merlyn’s peripheral vision, arms stretching out for her. Hunith’s face receded, her fingers blowing away like dust in the wind. Only her voice remained for a moment longer. “Return, oh daughter mine, to the land of the living.”

Merlyn opened her eyes and stared up at the sunlight filtering through the branches above her. She shut them, then opened them again. Light. Trees. The sound of horse hooves becoming steadily louder. Merlyn sat up sluggishly, frowning as she attempted to register the final sound. Horse hooves were important, she was sure. She dabbled her fingers in the air and, against all reasoning, giggled like a child. At least they weren’t gold anymore. She struggled to her feet, then fell flat on her face as her knees gave out. Her back hurt like… like all hell. There really wasn’t any other way to describe it. She groaned into crackling leaves and thought vaguely about death and how she wished for it. There was a thump. The hoof beats had stopped. Was that important?

“Uh, ma'am, are you quite well?” Merlyn groaned again. “Ma'am?”

“Sjgnbh,” Merlyn said. She frowned. That hadn’t sounded right. “Nvfnc?” She pushed herself up shakily, squinting at the man a few yards away from her. “Ah, _buggrit_.” _That_ had been correct, at least. Now convinced she could speak properly, Merlyn immediately decided that the next course of action would be to lie through her teeth. “Fine, fine, thanks.” The man nodded.

“Could you, pray, point me in the direction of fair Camelot?” Merlyn rubbed her nose, then pulled herself to her feet, grasping the trunk of the tree behind her for balance.

“Yeah, sure. It’s uh,” she thought for moment, then gestured with her other arm. “That way, I believe.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” The man mounted his horse and rode away through the trees. Merlyn stared in the direction he went for a while, then limped back to the city, scoffing under her breath as she did so. Fair Camelot _indeed._ For she would rather be surly than consider what had just happened, and what it might mean.

She ran into Gwen in one of the many passageways, bearing a basket of cloth.

“Merlyn,” she exclaimed, nearly dropping her load. Merlyn gave her a sunny smile and tried not to blush, then wondered why.

“Uh, hi. Um. Do you know where the weavers work?” Gwen nodded enthusiastically, describing the path she would have to take in order to get there.

“Alright, lemme see if I got this.” She swivelled around, wincing as her back creaked in ways she was _certain_ it shouldn’t. “Go along this corridor, turn left, turn left _again,_ turn right, take the second set of stairs down, turn…left?”

“Right.”

“Turn right, turn right twice more, go up the stairs, turn left at the intersection… and end up in that tower,” Merlyn finished, pointing at the spire visible out of the window. “Bit bloody confusing. I never had much of a sense of direction. I mean, thanks all the same, but why,” she continued, moving towards the gap, “would I do that when I could do _this?”_ She dropped out the window.

“Merlyn!” Gwen yelled, rushing over to peer out at what she feared would be a smear on the street far below. Sitting on a gargoyle demurely, though, was her new friend, waving merrily as though she almost hadn’t caused Gwen a heart attack. Gwen pressed a hand to her chest, relieved. “Oh thank _goodness,_ Merlyn. I thought you had died!”

“Who, me? Nah. I’m _indestructible,_ I am.” Merlyn stood, grasping the small ledge at shoulder height while at the same time completely failing to grasp the truth in her words, and began to shimmy across the castle wall like a spider. Gwen picked up the basket, following the girl’s progress anxiously, peering out every window she came across, even the arrow slits. She passed Prince Arthur, not even registering his presence as she leaned out to watch Merlyn get across a _particularly_ smooth section of wall, didn’t notice him until he asked,

“What are you looking at?” Gwen spun around, bobbing a hasty curtsy.

“Sorry, my lord, I didn’t see you.” She turned to look again, eyes tracking the climber’s movements. “It’s my friend.” The prince glanced at the figure below in an off-hand manner, then whipped his head back to stare at a red scarf painting a line in the wind.

“That’s Merlyn, isn’t it?” He asked wearily.

“You know her, my lord?” Prince Arthur’s mouth set itself in a thin line, and Gwen realised this was a rather silly question, considering the circumstances of her and Merlyn’s first meeting.

“We’ve… met.” He winced as Merlyn swung wildly from one hand. “Tell me, is she always this chaotic?” Merlyn clutched at the foot of one particularly malevolent-looking carven beast, the sound of an exulted whoop rising up to them. Gwen pursed her lips, then nodded morosely.

“I’m afraid so, my lord.”

“Does she still have a splint on her arm?”

“Yes, my lord.” The prince sighed as they stared down at the girl who was quite probably trouble incarnate. Or something.

“What an _idiot._ ”

*

Meanwhile, Merlyn was having the time of her life. Her fingers were numb, her back ached, the wind was blowing up a gale, and she was enjoying herself _far_ too much for someone who was a mistake away from falling to her death. She waved up at Gwen, realising too late that doing so meant letting go. By the time she had gained her grip once again and looked up, another head had joined the maid’s. Merlyn squinted at it, realising that it was Arthur. She scowled as she slid along a thin gutter and began hauling herself up the tower, fingers digging into the tiny grooves and cracks of the stones. She had almost reached the top when a woman spoke.

“For pity’s sake, Anna, close the window, it’s right freezing in ‘ere.” Merlyn dived through the window just as the doe-eyed girl she presumed to be Anna reached for the shutters. Somebody screamed at her sudden appearance, and Gwen burst through the door, red-faced and panting.

“Nobody panic!” She commanded, waving her hands frantically. Once everyone had calmed down (to an extent – one woman was still in what seemed to be quiet hysterics), Gwen took Merlyn’s arm, giving her a sweet grin as she did so. Merlyn’s heart beat wildly. “Everyone, this is Merlyn. Merlyn, this is Evelyn, Di, Geske, Olga, Rin, Peggy, Doue, Winnie, and Ellie and Anna. They’re twins,” she added in aside. “The spinners are Ally, Jane, Elsie and Lila.” Merlyn nodded at them in greeting, although her gaze lingered most upon their looms. The odd rattling sound started up once more as Ellie stooped to light a fire in the cold grate. Merlyn watched in askance as strange wooden pieces moved the warps upwards and downwards, as the weavers fair _threw_ the shuttles though the open threads. These looms were strange, unlike anything she had ever seen before. They were _horizontal,_ not vertical like the one she had worked at since she was tall enough to reach it.

But there, in the corner, a threadbare cloth covering a familiar shape. Merlyn took a stool and several skeins of grey wool, soft as her new scarf, and began to thread the warps, humming to herself.

_Behind you…_

Merlyn started at the strange voice (she was sick of people talking with her in her head), then turned to check behind her so fast she almost fell off her chair. But it was only Gwen, biting her lip anxiously.

“You’ll… be alright?” Merlyn grinned at her.

“Yeah. Thanks, Gwen.” Gwen bowed her head, her cheeks strangely pink, hoisted her basket onto her hip and walking hurriedly out the door.

It was surreal. If Merlyn closed her eyes and imagined the wool was as coarse as she was and listened to the crackle of the fire, she could almost convince herself she was home.

Almost.

But the air was cold, and the ever-present cloying sensation of stone around her made it impossible to wish herself back in Ealdor. Besides, she had left, hadn’t she? It wasn’t as though she could leave, could return and say, ‘Oh, I’ve had my fun, let me return to my boring life now. I’ve learnt that I shouldn’t stray into the big bad world.’

And that was it, she realised, pausing to beat the weft back. Her life had been _boring_. The winter, bandits trying to steal the crops, strange dukes coming to claim sisters, that wasn’t _exciting._ It was dangerous. It was terrifying.

Life in the city had the threat of death all the same, but now it was exotic, now it came with a thrill. Yes, it was dangerous, perhaps even more so when she had been in her sheltered little village, or even Castle Ambrosius, but… Well. There was _variety_ in the dangers presented.

She knew that she would get bored, or come too close to death or being outed, or get too comfortable. Then she would move on. Merlyn had heard, once, of a small island-town off the coast of Dalriada that was a city of magic users, living and practising their craft freely without fear of execution. Perhaps she could earn enough money to travel there, free of voices in her head and the talk of destiny and walking the edge between life and death every day.

She hummed tunelessly, immersed in her work, all thoughts of impossible cities and seas of gold washed, as it were, from her mind.

*

It was the fourth day of celebrations, and for this the king had chosen a tournament to welcome Lady Helen of Mora. Lady Morgana had given the weavers a day off, but rather than watching people bash other people over the head with various weapons (and in any case, there was an entry fee), Merlyn loitered a little way from the entrance, and spread out her awareness.

She cringed as it entered the arena, for although the information being picked up by the five ordinary senses was overwhelming enough, there was a slight… double vision, double scent, double sound, double sensation. Everyone had a colour about them, a smell, a _feeling,_ like a second skin, visible only when she did this

_magic it is magic it is evil magic is bad why do you practise magic you Godlost girl, it is magic it is magic magic magic_

trick. It hurt her bloody head.

There was the warm, slightly golden glow streaked with carmine-embers-crackling and the smell of smoke that, upon closer examination, turned out to be none other than Prince Prat himself. The sharp peppermint-silver-purple-rustle was the Lady Morgana, which was pleasant, and the cinnamon-honey-chimes Gwen. (If she lingered on that for a moment longer, nobody would know.) King Uther’s second-skin terrified her, the bitter scent of snow contrasted with blood-red screams that spoke of murder and grief. But there was no porridge-parchment-clang, although she searched for it in vain.

Next to Uther was a conflicting darkness, soot-sorrow-(a sort of grey)-wind marring tea-olive-birdsong. The darkness reached out tendrils of shadow, like it had in her nightmare sennights before, like it had in the sea of gold. Her eyes popped open, vision suddenly limited to that of the mortal world. Merlyn breathed a sigh of relief, still unsettled by what she had just witnessed.

Nobody could live like that for long and still be human. Nobody could live seeing the barest shades of people’s souls laid bare to see in a single glance, see what was there and what was written in their heads and hearts.

 _Porridge-parchment-clang…_ It was the faintest hint, disappearing like smoke as the last effects of the vision faded away. It came from beyond the opposite side of the arena, so Merlyn attempted to march over (which resulted in her falling face-first into a patch of mud).

“Hello, Myrddin,” Gaius greeted, not bothering to look up.

“Uh, morning. Do you need any help?”

“Yes. Would you care to assist me in mixing this? You must stir widdershins, though, otherwise it becomes a rather horrible poison.”

 _Widdershins?_ Merlyn wanted to scream. _Why would you stir it widdershins?_ Widdershins was the way the devil walked, widdershins was the treacherous, one-way road of magic. Reluctantly, though, she did it, for she had been called _demonspawn_ and _hellchild_ as long as she could remember _,_ and she had been walking magic’s road her whole life (so what was the point in stopping now? She might as well dig her hole as deep as she could, dig until it was as deep as a grave). Finally, when they had settled into what Merlyn judged to be a comfortable silence, she went to break it, to ask if falling a long way could make people see mothers and cities and gold.

And didn’t.

It seemed stupid now, already fading away. It didn’t make _sense,_ so dreamlike had it been. And perhaps that was all it was. Perhaps it was just a dream, and nothing more, a product of a fall and a confused mind.

“I met this guy in the woods today, right,” She began conversationally, “and he asked me to point him in the direction of ‘fair Camelot.” She sniggered. “If this place is fair, then I’m Arthur Pendragon.”

“I would certainly hope not,” came the voice of Arthur Pendragon – the _real_ Arthur Pendragon. Merlyn yelped, almost dropping the bowl, and spun around, holding the spoon defensively. There he stood behind her, looking incredibly smug as always. Merlyn stuck her tongue out at him, which only served to increase the smugness and adding an expression that screamed _haha I’m more mature than you._

“How long have you been standing there- Gaius, how long has he been standing there?” Gaius glanced at him, said ‘sire' in greeting, and, uncharacteristically, shrugged. Merlyn placed down the paste with care, planting her hands on her hips.

“You know you were eavesdropping?” Arthur smirked.

“Was it a private conversation?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Really?”

“Well, there are these things called manners, dunno if you’ve heard-”

“I hate to interrupt,” said Gaius, “but do you need anything, your highness?”

“What? Oh, a painkiller tonic.” Arthur rotated his shoulder, grimacing. “Sir Bors landed me a rather heavy hit on my shield.”

“Well done that man,” said Merlyn, turning around, and concentrating on the paste once again.

“By the way Merlyn, I- Are you stirring that _widdershins?_ ” Merlyn looked at Gaius accusingly, then straightened from where she was hunched over the bench, not looking at the prince.

“Yes. Do you have anything of actual importance to say? If you don’t, then please leave.”

“I am the _prince_ and you _will_ not dismiss me.”

“Sure.”

“I was going to tell you that Sir Geoffrey and I have possibly found a way to help you in your… spot of legal trouble, by means of _Exeo Carco Cum Nihil Pretti Quia Ego Sic Dico._ ” Merlyn moved her lips soundlessly, repeating the words.

“What, get out of gaol free because I said so?”

“You speak Latin?”

“No.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. I appreciate not swinging.”

“Any time.” Gaius handed the tonic over wordlessly, and Arthur left. Merlyn turned her head, watching him go, a thoughtful expression her face.

“What a strange person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm Just That Sort of Person, here is how the coinage works in this world. (this is based off the english coinage before decimals became a Thing, things about celtic coins on wikipedia, and the nonsense that emerges from my head.)  
> 2 ha’pennig -->1 pennig – 5 pennig --> 1 crown – 20 crowns --> 1 scillinga - 3 scillingas --> 1 sceatta (quite a bit of money in the views of people of Ealdor… but not so much for Camelot, where everything is Ridiculously Overpriced™.) 1 gold piece is like,,, 25 sceatta. Heck ton of cash.  
> I own nothing but plot and the occasional character.


	8. The Death of a Mother and The Life of a Prince; Two Sides of the Same Coin; The Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlyn is stabbed. Merlyn saves Arthur's life and feels guilty about the means to the end. Merlyn gets another job. Merlyn meets finally the irritating voice in her head, which turns out to be a bloody dragon. Fun times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An update that took less than a moNTH? Oh my.

_Merlyn walks in shadows unnoticed. They wreath about her legs, snapping like hounds, but they cannot harm her. Not yet._

_Merlyn walks in shadows, and slowly the darkness in her vision recedes. She is in Camelot. **She**_ _is a shadow._

_There is a pyre in the centre of the square. Someone is tied to it, clothed in nothing but a long white nightdress. Merlyn watches herself, her flesh-and-bone self, not a thought in the shadows, watches herself take a step forward. Watches herself lift a burning torch. Watches herself set the pyre alight._

_The girl on fire begins to scream, the terrible cries of a day burnt forever in her memory. Shadow-Merlyn tries to run for her sister, tries to push herself out of the way, but there is no shadow in the brilliant, burning light of fire._

_The flesh-and-bone Merlyn smiles, as though this is all a great joke and Ganieda’s death is the punchline. Part of her is still like that, still harsh and cruel and angry and hungry for violence, but it is locked away, deep, deep, deep within her soul, chained and shackled so that none but her can see it. It is the part that is Bridget, faithful and cowardly and strong and subservient._

_The pyre crumbles to ash, and Shadow-Merlyn turns to the Flesh-and-bone Bridget-Merlyn. She is crying. They are both crying, one from an excess of humour, one from a terrible sadness and guilt. A shape rises out of the remains of the pyre._

_Burnt and mangled, half-human and half-cinders, it is still recognisably her sister. The wraith bares its teeth, smiling in a grimace horribly reminiscent of the way part of her had smiled only moments previously._

_Ganieda holds out a hand. Merlyn reaches for it._

_The other her grabs her sister by ashy hair, yanking her head back. Silver glints in the light from a moon that isn’t there. Slowly, deliberately, flesh-and-bone Bridget-Merlyn slits her throat, letting the body fall to the floor._

_Ganieda dies._

_Flesh-and-bone Bridget-Merlyn lifts up both hands, and the knives in each rise with them. Merlyn doesn’t care, couldn’t care less, but the twice-killed corpse of her sister is lying on the ground in front of her. Fire balls itself in her hands, shooting towards the other, but Merlyn is a shadow, and shadows do not, cannot exist in the light._

_Ganieda rises again, once again, just in time to bear the brunt of the blow. Merlyn screams-_

Merlyn jolted awake, hitting her head against the wall she was huddled against. Opposite her, and still smoking slightly, was a charred circle on the stone.

The night was old (but the night is _always_ old), and the air horribly bitter, but the dawn was coming. She slid her boots on, wincing as they rubbed against the blisters that had formed as a consequence of no socks, and hid the blanket behind an empty crate. She hugged her arms around herself as she walked through the deserted streets of Camelot, melting into shadows as guards walked past. She smiled. A _child_ could sneak through here. But she had a purpose.

Straightening, Merlyn continued on, stopping as she finally reached the square.

There was no pyre, no ash, no vindictive part of herself that relished in the pain of others. She relaxed (it had been a dream, only a dream), turning to leave when something sharp and cold pressed against the back of her neck. She tensed, reaching for the knife on her belt. It had been her father’s, one of the only things left of him, and she had been loath to take it from beneath her mother's pillow.

“Well, well, _well,_ ” sneered a voice dripping with malice. “What have we here?” Merlyn’s breathing sped up. _Nonononono-_ She ducked, spinning around, keeping low to the ground as she darted forward.

“It appears,” she retorted as she tried to draw the knife, “that I’m faced by an arrogant pig. Go back to the sty, lest you be turned into bacon!” Sir Samuel (for that is who it was, if you have the misfortune of remembering him) growled, jabbing at her with the sword. It caught her in her side, sharp enough to cut through layers of cloth and injure her. Her side stung bitterly, as though she had touched her bare hand to ice. 

“I am a knight of Camelot,” he spat. Merlyn, who had finally succeeded in wrestling her blade from the scabbard, lunged forward, blocking a swipe aimed at her face.

“Not too knightly at the moment, though, eh? Don’t you have a code, or something? _Do not harm innocents?_ Or is that just... not a thing? Nah, it wouldn't be, you've killed too many who did not deserve it for that.” Her voice shook as she spoke. Here was a trained knight of Camelot, as he had so astutely pointed out – at best, she was only prolonging the inevitable. At worst, she was prolonging the inevitable, and the inevitable would come with a vengeance. It was a lose-lose situation for her, except…

Her eye was drawn by the rough wall behind Samuel. She sprinted for it, sheathing the knife as she did so, and ran up the side. Samuel turned instinctively, following the movement, just as she guessed -hoped- he would, and she flipped herself backwards off the stone, arcing high in the air above Samuel’s head and landing behind him. It was a simple trick, a game, something she had a thousand times off trees with Will.

Merlyn stumbled as she landed, tripping on too-long skirts, but recovered herself, lashing out a well-aimed foot at his knee. Samuel fell over, swearing, and she kicked the sword away, running for the wall again and swarming up it, away into the night.

An alarm bell began to ring as Merlyn lay on a ledge behind a gargoyle, one hand pressed to her side. She peered between the carven horns at the deployed guard beginning their search for her, stabbing stacks of straw and shadows with their blades, as if she was stupid enough to hide there. 

Alright. This was easy. She ran a hand through her hair, took a breath, and began to climb. The wind picked up, whistling loudly as she crept along balustrades and hung from precarious handholds, her brace creaking. Blood stained her palm a deep red, mixing with sweat, but it was just a scratch. Just a scratch, was all.

_If they had crossbows…_

Well, if they’d had crossbows… she was good as gone. But nobody looked up, or if they did, they didn’t see her. Her palms were slippery from sweat and the cut on her side ached. Once, she looked down, and her head spun, and she thought, that’s strange. Heights had never frightened her, never even bothered her.

There was a window up ahead, and no way for her to go above or below it, not without jumping some twelve feet up. There was nothing for it; she’d have to risk it. Merlyn fair flew past it, and she was several yards away when it swung open. She froze (movement was always the greatest giveaway), when someone hissed her name. When she didn’t respond, a dark head poked out. It was Lady Morgana.

 _“Merlyn!”_ Merlyn edged closer to the opening uncertainly. One of the panes was shut, allowing her access, and hands pulled her through the other.

“What are you doing?” asked Gwen, who was standing beside her mistress. Merlyn said nothing. “Merlyn?”

“She’s bleeding. Go get Gaius,” someone replied. They sounded very far off.

“I’m fine,” Merlyn whispered, and so saying, passed out on the floor.

*

“I see you are awake,” someone said. Merlyn rolled over, pressing her face into the mattress.

“M’not. Go ‘way.”

A part of her mind that was more conscious than the rest thought, mattress? We don’t _have_ a mattress. Merlyn opened her eyes.

“You, young lady, are a menace.”

“Thank you.” She sat up, and almost immediately regretted doing so. Her side felt like it was on fire.

“It wasn’t a compliment.” Her gaze focused. She was still in Morgana’s quarters, dressed in naught but her shift and braies. Embarrassment clouded her face, and she pulled the discarded blanket tight around her.

“Do you know where my clothes are?”

“Gwen took most of them to wash the blood out. She left your hose, however. You gave her and Lady Morgana quite the scare.”

“Oh.”

“I believe, however,” Gaius continued, “that your belongings are still in my storeroom. Is that correct? No, don’t move-” he added hastily, but Merlyn was already striding through the door, grabbing her hose as she walked the corridors of Camelot with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, earning her several strange looks.

In the privacy of the storeroom, she peeled the shift off, glancing at the bandages that concealed where she had been… stabbed. Yeah. She placed her fingers over the cut gingerly, counting one, two, three, four stitches, protruding slightly beneath the smoothness of the bandage. Yeah. Four stitches meant she could say it was a stab. Merlyn rummaged through the blanket/pack, finally emerging with her last clean tunic, still a vibrant red (like blood, too much like blood) from its last dye. She pulled it on, found a neckerchief, and went back outside, where Gaius had appeared, holding a plate of food. He tried to hand it to her, but she waved it away.

“I’m fine. Really, I am. I’ll just, um, be on my way, thanks for-”

“For pity’s sake, Myrddin, have a break!” Merlyn shrugged, plonking down on the bench and accepting the plate.

“Ta,” she managed through a mouthful of roll. Oh, but it was _good._ The hunger that she had been quashing with wild edibles from the forest rose up, demanding to be sated. She finished it quickly, picking up the last few crumbs with her fingertip.

“Now, will you tell me what happened?”

“I fell over.” Gaius raised an eyebrow. It was amazing how expressive he could make the gesture, she thought.

“Try again. The truth this time, if you please.” There was no escaping the eyebrow. Merlyn sighed, shutting her eyes.

“Iwasstabbed,” she mumbled. A second eyebrow joined the first.

“By whom?”

“Some guy.”

“That doesn’t explain why you were climbing the castle walls with some urgency, nor why there were armed guards searching for you. Remember: a lie by omission is still a lie.”

 _“Fine._ A knight called Samuel. He’s a bastard.”

“And you’ve met him before?”

“Yeah. He and his mate broke my arm.”

“I see.” Merlyn looked up with a sudden flash of worry.

“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? Only, I’ve already had a bit of a run-in with the law enforcers, and the chap at the dungeons was none too pleased to let me out.”

“This is very serious, Myrddin-”

“It’s fine. I can handle it.” The eyebrow, which had only just returned to its normal position, rose again.

“Clearly.”

“I can!”

“Which is why you were bleeding and unconscious when you were brought in here. Of course.” Merlyn grit her teeth, scowling at a bar of light dabbling innocently on the ground. By the position of the sun she had seen when traversing the castle, she judged it to be late afternoon. How much of Gaius’ time had she taken up? How much time had she wasted lying around in Morgana's room on a couch?

“That aside, how much do I owe you this time?”

“I think, in the circumstances, nothing.” Merlyn’s head snapped up.

“Really?” Gaius nodded, and she smiled. _Really_ smiled, not just a façade put up for show. Then the smile disappeared as she remembered that people were people and would go back on their words in an instant if they thought it would benefit them. Owing people was dangerous.

(Damn! She owed the prince as well. Now she was in debt with two people, and debt was not a good place to be.)

“Honestly, I don’t mind helping out. It’s quite enjoyable, really.” Gaius nodded thoughtfully.

“If that is the case, then perhaps I should offer you an apprenticeship.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. And now, I suggest you find Gwen and tell her you’re alright. She was quite worried about you.” A warm feeling, not unlike that which she got when she used magic, began to curl in her chest. It was ridiculous, Merlyn knew, but still…

She darted out the door, disentangling her necklace from the strings of the tunic. And because one thought follows another, she thought of home, and of conflicting beliefs, and absently patted her pocket for the _ebed_ , as if to mentally apologise to God for not being _totally_ faithful. She froze.

It wasn’t there.

Merlyn started to run, something within her guiding her through corridor after corridor, straight towards where she knew cinnamon-honey-chimes – where she knew, somehow, where _Gwen_ was, like she was following a golden thread that fastened the two of them together.

She arrived, panting, in the kitchen, ducking and dodging as she attempted to reach the doorway that had vapour curling around the edges of the door, when a heavy hand clamped on her neck. Her hand went for her knife – but it wasn’t there, and neither was her belt, which meant there was only string to hold her pants up.

“You get back to work, girl,” growled a woman. “Don’t think I didn’t see you skiving off to the washroom.” Merlyn twisted in her grip.

“Sorry.”

“I have half a mind to put you on serving duty.”

“Is that allowed?” The woman, who Merlyn guessed was the cook, scowled at her, shoving her towards the bench.

“You just keep quiet and do your job, or you’ll find out.”

“I don’t-” she began, but the cook had already stomped away. “-Work here. Oh, you’ve gone.” She shrugged, turning to the carrots waiting to be chopped in front of her. “Whatever.” Merlyn began to dice them awkwardly, humming to herself as she did so.

“What day is it?” She asked the opposite her, who appeared to be busily endorsed in the task of shelling some sort of nut.

“Sabbath.” Merlyn froze, feeling the blood drain from her face. The wound began to throb as the memories of countless voices flowed through her mind.

_You must never work on Sabbath._

_Sabbath is God’s day._

_Do you want to go to hell?_

_Do not work on the Sabbath day._

_Godlost girl, Godlost girl, working on the Sabbath? You fool. To Hell with you for a hundred thousand years!_

The last sounded peculiarly like her own (or, more correctly, like Bridget’s).

“Sabbath?” she repeated weakly. “But… it’s _Sabbath._ ” The man gave her an odd look.

“Weren’t you there for the speech Father Díos gave? He said that we were…” The man’s lips moved in the effort of thought. “Ex-emp-ted from the rules of Sabbath on account of it being the last day of the celebrations that what the King threw, and that it would not count as sin.” Merlyn’s brow furrowed.

“That’s not right.” The man shrugged, focusing on the bowl of nuts before him.

“It’s what the priest said, so it must be true. ‘Scuse me, but I think Cook wants to talk to you.”

“Ah.” Merlyn arranged her features in a smile, then turned around.

“You’re on pitcher duty. Get out there, girl.”

“Of course, Cook.” A silver jug was thrust into her hands, and she joined the general bustle of servants heading towards what could only be the feast. She ended up circling the tables, feeling like some sort of predatory animal, ready to be at the beck and call of any noble. When she walked past Arthur, she ducked her head, glaring holes in his boots, but he was preoccupied with the entrance of Lady Morgana, who looked stunning in a deep red gown. She stopped beside someone, looked over, and realised it was Gwen, who was watching her mistress with something akin to adoration.

“She looks stunning, dain’t she?” Gwen jumped.

“Merlyn! What are you doing here?” Merlyn bowed floridly, almost spilling half the contents of the pitcher on ground.

“Looking for you, o lovely Guinevere.” The aforementioned lovely Guinevere giggled, cheeks turning pink.

“You’re supposed to be _resting,_ not… prancing around with a jug.”

“Early to bed and early to rise, I am. Uh, sorry.”

“For what?”

“Getting stabbed. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Gwen raised an eyebrow, looking scarily like Gaius, then wrapped her arms around Merlyn. Merlyn, who hadn’t been expecting it, started, but rested her head against her friend’s.

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” Gwen murmured into her shoulder, then released her, fishing in the small pouch fastened to her belt. “Is this yours?” Merlyn sighed with relief. On Gwen’s palm lay her ebed, the beads comfortingly worn and shiny from near-constant touching.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Gwen curled an arm around her bicep, her fingers resting lightly against the cloth of Merlyn’s shirt.

“I suppose Morgana does look lovely,” she conceded.

“Yeah,” Merlyn said, trying to look anywhere except Gwen… Or Lady Morgana… Or really anyone that qualified as an attractive human being, really.

“Some people are just born to be queen.” 

“No!”

“I’d hope so. Not that I’d want to be her.” Merlyn side-eyed Arthur balefully, who had migrated to his throne.

“Yeah. I mean, who’d want to marry Arthur? He’s the Crown Prat to end all Crown Prats, after all.” Gwen chuckled, then looked around guiltily. They weren’t so far from the royal table as to not be heard if someone was listening.

“Merlyn!”

“It’s true, and you can’t deny it. Come on, Gwen, I thought you _liked_ those real rough-tough, die-hard fellows.” The main doors began to swing inexorably open.

“I like much more ordinary people like you.” Merlyn turned scarlet, shaking her head.

“Gwen, believe me, I’m about as far from ordinary as you’ll get.” It was Gwen’s turn to blush.

“I-I didn’t mean you, obviously. But just, you know, ordinary people like you.”

“Right. Yeah. ‘Course.” They looked away from each other, although Gwen’s hand remained obstinately attached to Merlyn’s arm for a moment longer.

“I’d better go see to Lady Morgana.”

“Yeah. I’ll just… stand here.” Celebratory horns began to sound, and the king entered.

“We,” he began once he stood in front of his throne before the various nobles, “we have enjoyed twenty years of peace and prosperity.” _Hah!_ Merlyn thought. “It has brought the kingdom and myself many pleasures, but few can compare with the honour of introducing Lady Helen of Mora.” There was dutiful applause, and then everyone took their seats.

Lady Helen walked through the doors next, dressed in a gown of bright gold velvet, and bringing with her the cloying sensation Merlyn had felt in the forest a few days before. Suspicions rising, she half-shut one eye, poking a small tendril of awareness out. The sheer influx of second-skins made her knees buckle, but she resolutely focused on the woman standing in the doorway. Sure enough, there was the ugly, discordant clash of soot-sorrow-wind and tea-olive-birdsong that Merlyn had spotted in the arena.

Then she began to sing, the words curling around the tendril and stifling it. Merlyn fought the urge to gag and yawn at the same time, even as others did the same. People began to fall asleep where they sat, or in the cases of some servants, stood.

The pitcher clanged to the polished stone floor as Merlyn clapped her hands to her ears, the dark red wine staining the stone like a slick of blood. She began to sing to herself as the so-called Lady Helen advanced towards the dais the prince and king sat at, moving with a strange purpose. Merlyn tried to think.

 _“Green gravel, green gravel, your grass is so green,_  
_The fairest young lady that ever I’ve seen._  
_Green gravel, green gravel, your true love is dead - oh damn oh damn oh damn.”_ Lady Helen’s arm rose, a dagger at the ready. Merlyn looked around, sighted the chandelier, concentrated on the chain, and let her magic loose. The heavy thing, iron by the looks of it, came crashing down directly over the woman, sending her tumbling to the floor.

Now the singing had stopped, the apparent spell was broken, and people began to wake from their slumber. There seemed to be collectively wondering why people didn’t dust in here more often, including the servants on dusting duty, instead of perhaps, oh, Merlyn didn’t know, paying more attention to the woman who just tried to commit _treason_.

King Uther stood, looking outraged and confused, his son following suite, both staring at the body of almost-certainly-not-Lady Helen. The would-be impostor in question lifted her head suddenly, and Merlyn sucked in a breath, because Lady Helen was not, in fact, Lady Helen, something that came as little surprise. No, the real shock was precisely _who_ had been wearing the noblewoman’s face.

It was the old woman from the plaza, the crone, the witch, the one that had disappeared in a flash of smoke and wind. The dagger left her hand, spinning end over end in a perfect arc that Merlyn somehow knew would strike, point first, in the chest of Arthur Pendragon.

Instinctively, she slowed time for just a second, a vital second in which Merlyn leapt forward, pushing Arthur out of the way. The knife went _thunk_ in the wood of his throne.

The mother of Thomas James Collins, a crone, a witch, a _mother_ who grieved for her child, died quietly. Merlyn rolled away from Arthur, pushing herself to her feet, her side twinging. Both Arthur and Uther were staring at her, just as they had stared at the… the old woman. The old woman who, by rights, should have been called _granny_ or _mot_ someday, a title, an honorific, who by rights in another time and place would have been revered for her magic. The old woman who might have been called _mam_ when her son was small, just as Merlyn still called her own, who had sought nothing more than revenge, than recompense for her son’s _murder,_ however misguided (or not) it may have been.

“You saved my boy,” King Uther said in the tones of one surprised beyond all imaging. _And you killed hers and I killed her. How the world goes round,_ Merlyn thought.“A debt must be repaid.”

 _She didn’t owe the prince anymore,_ a voice whispered in her mind. She nearly danced a jig for joy, then remembered that she was standing in front of a _king._

“Oh, it was- it was nothing really, Your Majesty.” Merlyn stuck a hand in her pocket nervously, winding the beads of her _ebed_ so tight between her fingers they were in danger of splintering.

“Don’t be so modest. You shall be rewarded!” _Now_ things were looking up. Maybe he’d give her a bag of money and she could bugger off to the magic city-isle and forget all about this mess. She’d miss Gwen and Gaius and Lady Morgana and even Keaton, of course, but it was best to get things over and done with.

“No, it’s fine, honest,” she protested, but not _too_ much, in case he decided to heed her words. A _really big_ bag of gold…

“Absolutely,” King Uther countered firmly. “This merits something quite special.” He paused, his face a mask of careful consideration. “You shall be rewarded a position in the royal household. You shall be Prince Arthur’s manservant.” Merlyn smiled at him, at least, she smiled at him until his words sank it.

_Wait._

Oh no.

“Father!” Arthur exclaimed, appalled at this turn of events. Merlyn bowed, quietly seething, the thought of really bloody big bags of gold vanishing like… well, like fairy gold, leaving only junk behind. As far as metaphors went, it was quite apt.

“Your Majesty is eternally kind,” she muttered through clenched teeth. She made eye contact with Arthur, then looked away again, a fresh wave of irritation breaking over her. She should’ve just let him…

 _Die,_ taunted a voice in her mind that was, unfortunately, her own. She was bloody sick of voices, but the only person she could think of that could remedy it (legally, at least) was a priest. Anyway, what would she say? ‘Oh, there’s a voice in my head and it’s my own, please help’? Not bloody likely. _You would wish death upon an individual simply because you do not like a situation? Shame on you._

Yeah, she thought, that’s right. Shame on me. Gang up on me, that’s the way to do it. Not even the _voices_ in her head were on her side. She looked across the room and saw three people. Shall I describe it to you? (You have no choice, dear reader, but to read on.)

One was Gaius, who raised an eyebrow at her. Perhaps he knew what had brought the mother of Thomas James Collins down, perhaps he only suspected. She winked at him, then moved her gaze onwards. At the far end of the royal table sat Lady Morgana, Gwen beside her. They were both clapping, and Lady Morgana inclined her head in a noble fashion, as if to say, _well done_. Gwen looked ridiculously proud.

Merlyn smiled. She went home (if a patch of cobbles and shadows could be called home) to bed (if stone was a bed and a horse rug a blanket) after the feast was good and done, after the body was… disposed of. The oily smoke that comes only from burning flesh hung above the citadel for the rest of the night. Merlyn hummed to herself again as she walked not unnoticed through the stream of servants, but it was not the song she had sung earlier, trying to combat the dark depths of unconsciousness.

It was, in a way, a memorial, an air to remember an old woman in a fine golden gown. (Gold was a colour of corruption; the colour of gold, the colour of magic. It could symbolise good, but what was good in the face of evil?) They didn’t even know her name. The Widow Collins, perhaps, who would never get a grave, her ashes instead travelling on a wind into the forest. A fitting end, some might say.

Merlyn did not dream.

*

_Merlyn…_

Merlyn clutched at her blanket, shifting on the stone as she was wrestled from sleep.

 _You can bloody well shut up,_ she thought furiously.

_Come, Merlyn. I wish to meet you._

_No._

_Merlyn!_

Slowly, she began to get to her feet.

 _I don’t know the way,_ she protested silently.

_That is of no matter. Come to me. I will ensure that you shall not be seen._

Honestly, she didn’t know what to say. Or think. Merlyn found herself… directed into the citadel, taken down flights of stairs and through secret tunnels. Eventually she looked down a dark, narrow staircase, holding a burning brand that she didn’t remember picking up.

_Merlyn…_

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she hissed, taking the stairs three at a time, ending up in what looked like a large – no, _gigantic_ cavern.

“Merlyn!” Merlyn almost fell over at the sheer _enormity_ of the voice. And sitting in front of her…

Sitting in front of her…

Was a dragon.

“How small you are for such a great destiny,” it remarked ponderously. Merlyn slapped her cheek with her free hand, intending to try wake herself up from whatever hellish dream this was, and succeeded only in getting a faceful of splinters.

“You’re a dragon,” she said blankly.

“Observant too, I see.” She ran her hands through her hair and accidentally dropped the torch. It went out with a quiet _whoof_ upon making contact with the sand, but the dragon's eyes glowed like a cat's.

“I want to wake up now, please,” she said to the air in general. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I would like to wake up.”

“You cannot wake up from that which is reality,” it intoned. Merlyn scowled up at it.

“I can bloody well try.”

“Your destiny is coming to pass, young Merlyn. You and Arthur are but two sides of the same coin.”

Yeah, a priest wasn’t going to help. ‘Oh hi, there are voices in my head and usually they’re my own but when they’re not it’s a dragon,’ probably wasn’t to go down well. Well, _Merlyn_ might go down a well, but the situation wouldn’t be ideal.

“Sure.” She took in its supposed dwellings by the dim lights of far-off crystals. “Why’re you down here, anyway? Punishment for mentally harassing random people on the street? And what do you eat? You’re huge.” The dragon looked miffed.

“I was imprisoned by Uther Pendragon, as a show of his power and as an example to all magical beings. As for food, I have been in stasis since the ending of the Purge. That which exists only barely in the mortal realm does not need to eat.”

“Sounds boring, but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.” Instantly, Merlyn knew she’d said the wrong thing.

“Taste?” it boomed. “Do you think I wished to be enchained and forgotten in the dark? Do you think I wanted to become the last of my kind? Well? _Do you?”_

“No, no,” she replied quickly. “It was just- forget it. A figure of speech.” Merlyn swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry if I offended.” Already, the dragon’s rage seemed to have subsided.

“It does not matter,” it said wearily. “Such is the way of humans to make mistakes.” One great, golden eye turned to regard her. “But you are not entirely human, Merlyn. _Emrys._ And so you should not make mistakes as readily as your mortal brothers.” Merlyn had stopped listening as soon as she’d heard the word Emrys.

 _Emrys Emrys Emrys,_ the memories chanted. _Mighty Emrys, help us, save us, unite Albion. You are our only hope, Emrys._

“Is that the time?” she managed. “I’ve gotta- gotta go be a, um, side of a coin. See you never.” She sprinted back up the staircase, falling on her face in her haste and scraping her chin.

 _Never, Merlyn?_ The voice that she knew know to be the dragon sounded amused. _That is a long word indeed. Do you know what it means? I do._ Merlyn hissed, pounding her temple with the heel of her hand. The dragon laughed, its voice dry and cracked, but the sound was soon replaced with ringing bells. Merlyn counted three quarters of an hour past five.

She sneaked into Gaius’ chambers by the front door soundlessly, and found her clothes folded neatly on the bench, her belt and knife resting on top of the small pile. Grinning, she washed her face, changed, and slipped outside again to lean against the wall, where she proceeded to take a nap.

Merlyn awoke with a start as someone shook her shoulder and looked into the face of a guard.

“Miss Merlyn, the prince requests your presence immediately.” Merlyn groaned, hastily turning the sound into a cough when she saw the man’s puzzled expression. Her mouth tasted like sawdust.

“I can’t wait,” she muttered sarcastically, and so saying, followed the guard into the dawn of the first day of the rest of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeet skeet mcgeet, I have nothing to say for myself. Here's to the end of episode bloody one!


	9. Revelations; In Which Our Protagonist Reflects on Many Things; A Conversation on The Stairs; Merlyn Discovers That She is In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late guys, but, uh, have an extra 1500 words as compensation i guess. cw for brief mention of slavery/abuse/suicide. Nothing too graphic, I don't think.

Merlyn watched her new lord beat up a knight with mild disinterest. The first day of the rest of her life was, all in all, turning out to be pretty lousy so far. According to Arthur, her ever-growing list of crimes now including spilling wine on him, being late, dropping his lunch, being female and thus losing the chance to be turned into a splatter on the ground by him and his sword, talking too much, and generally existing.

His opponent finally yielded, his blunt weapon lying several yards away. Arthur laughed, helping him up, and Merlyn finally got a clear look at his face. It was Samuel; of _course_ it was Samuel. Of _course_ Arthur was fighting the man who had stabbed her not a day ago.

“Merlyn,” Arthur called. Merlyn looked up, half-expectant.

“Mmm?”

“Wait for me in the armoury. I do assume you know where that is?” He looked at her and sighed. “You don’t, do you? Sir Samuel, please escort her.” The animalian look of spiteful glee on Samuel’s face was almost too much to bear.

“It’s fine, I’ll-I’ll ask someone. A servant. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience _Sir Samuel,_ after all _._ ”

“It would be my pleasure to show you the way,” Samuel interjected smoothly. Merlyn swore internally. _Someone_ was going to die, but she’d be damned if it was her. Surreptitiously, she loosened her dagger in its scabbard as she stood up slowly.

“Well, go on,” Arthur said irritably. “I’ve still got to spar with Sir Leon.” Merlyn shrugged, pocketing the whetstone she had been playing with, and followed Samuel, making sure to stay behind him.

“Hurry up,” Samuel spat at her. Merlyn increased her stride until she was almost level with him, watching him out of the corner of her eye. The armoury, it turned out, wasn’t very far away.

“Thanks,” she said nonchalantly. _Go away now!_ her thoughts screamed. Merlyn looked around the place, taking in the multitude of weapons, when a hand grasped her short hair, yanking her head back. She looked into the furious eyes of a knight who would, against all reason, recognise honour if he saw it, but would probably mug it and kill it in an alleyway on a moonless night.

And he was holding onto her hair, which was cropped short because of lice, her hair, which was attached to her _head,_ which she _hadn’t been covering._ That was just _indecent._ Anyway, wasn’t that the entire point of the kerchiefs? But _no,_ she _had_ to be vain and put them around her neck to hide a stupid cut. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

“Now you listen to me,” Sam growled lowly as Merlyn struggled in his grip. “You think that now you’re his little bed-warmer, he’ll listen to you? I _told_ you I could make your life a living hell, and don’t you forg-”

“Everything alright, Sir Samuel?” Arthur asked from the doorway. Sam released his hold on her hair immediately, already smiling as he turned towards the prince.

“Of course, sire. Young… _Merlyn_ here simply asked me to remove some grass from her hair.”

“Merlyn?” Arthur asked, and Merlyn started, pride still smarting from ‘little bed-warmer’. Why was he asking _her?_ No. This wasn’t _fair._ Arthur was an absolute _donkey_ the rest of the time, so why was he asking _her?_ Why would he care? The word of a knight and the truth were one and the same, she knew, and he had just _questioned_ it.

“Y-yeah,” she managed, frowning. She moved towards Arthur and began to fumble with the straps on whatever the thing on the shoulder was called, awkwardly holding the buckle in place with her left hand. Sir Samuel grunted in pain as she passed him.

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry, Sir Samuel,” she said sweetly. “I seem to have trodden heavily on your foot and attempted to grind your toes into the floor. Please accept my sincerest apologies.” Samuel’s face grew red with poorly-concealed anger.

“My lord!” he said hotly. “I demand this-”

“You’re dismissed, Samuel.”

_“What?”_

“I said that you are dismissed, _Sir_ Samuel.” The knight’s heavy brow darkened, but he drew himself up and bowed.

“As my prince wishes,” he ground out, sweeping out looking the picture of righteous indignation and elbowing Merlyn hard in the ribs, which pulled on the still-healing skin of where he’d stabbed her. She doubled over with a grunt, her arm pressed tight against the spot in a futile attempt to ward off the pain.

“Are you _actually_ that stupid?” Arthur growled as soon as Samuel disappeared up the path. Merlyn could only groan in reply, screwing her eyes tight shut. Through the fabric of the kirtle, she could _just_ feel the puckered edges where the wound had been stitched shut, and she didn’t think they had split, but _ow._ “Sir Samuel is an influential man. He could make your life living hell if he wanted to.” Merlyn snorted inadvertently at that. Cautiously, she straightened up as Arthur turned around, glaring at her. If he noticed the new placement of the kerchief, or the ragged red scar on her collarbone, he made no mention of it. “What’s the matter with you, anyway?” Merlyn managed a smile, fingers pressed lightly to the area of the wound.

“Nothing,” she said jovially. “Nothing at all.”

*

“…And you do up the couter like _this,_ make sure it doesn’t slip down, and the vambrace fits under it like _that,_ and… you’re done,” Gwen said. “Almost done, anyway. I think you know what to do with the helmet.” Merlyn took it from her, grinning as she tucked it under her arm.

“How come you’re so much better at this than me?”

“Because I’m the blacksmith’s daughter.” Merlyn clicked her fingers.

“That’d do it.” Merlyn shifted; the amour was Arthur’s, and it was a bit too large for her, and the... gambeson was being folded and pressed most uncomfortably against her dress, which was, in turn, rubbing. She took a quick once-over of herself, then reached up over her shoulder and began to undo the straps. Immediately, Gwen came around behind her to undo it, and for a moment, their hands touched. Merlyn drew her hand back sharply, her fingers burning, and twisted around. The buckle, unlike the rest of the armour, was not steel, but iron. She glanced down at the still-stinging tips to see red rawness, like she had brushed her fingers against a hot cooking pot over the fire.

“What’s the matter?” Gwen asked, stilling in her movement.

“Nothing. Just hurt my fingers on the edge of the… er… the pauldron. Yeah. Don’t worry about it.” Gwen shook her head with a look of amused confusion on her face.

“You’re a strange one, Merlyn.”

“Thank you,” she replied drily. “Truly. It means a lot.”

“I didn’t mean… _strange_ strange, just…”

“Strange?” she suggested. Gwen giggled.

“Sorry.”

“For telling the truth?” Merlyn lifted her hand suddenly, catching Gwen’s beneath it. “Never apologise for telling the truth that needs to be told,” she said in a serious tone of voice. “And if you think the truth needs to be told, then _tell it_.” Gwen muttered something under her breath.

“Hmm?”

“Truth be told, then, you’re very pretty.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Merlyn felt herself turn bright red. She looked out of the corner of her eye at their fingers which had somehow become intertwined, and thought, _damn._ She’d had passing fancies before, but…

And then she thought of Elin.

Elin had been a young maid, working in the Duke Ambrosius’s castle. She had been found one day, lying with the daughter of a visiting lord as she would with a man. (This was in the days before Ambrosius fell in the king’s disgrace, of course.) The daughter had been sent away to a convent, so that she might be cleansed by God’s holiness and saved from the eternal pits of hell.

Elin had been hanged.

Merlyn and Nida had been made to watch from the balcony, to teach them to never stray from the path of God and into the Devil’s pagan shadow. The Duke had looked at her when he said this, long and hard, and said softly, after Ganieda had departed, that there were far worse things than death.

That night, she’d burned her Brigid’s cross, made from straw, fed it straight to the hungry flames and all the while hating herself and the Duke and Elin, then cried herself to sleep.

But the Duke hadn’t been right about everything, had he? And Elin was dead, and, well… So was Bridget, in a way. Merlyn, _Myrddin,_ could do as she very well pleased, and damn them all. She took a deep breath.

“So are you, my fair lady.”

*

Merlyn served Arthur his supper after that – and what a supper it was, too, the like of which Merlyn had not seen for almost five years. _Her_ supper, if she had time to get it at all, would come from the patch of nettles just outside the gate, and maybe some mushrooms, if they could be found. The roll Gaius had given her yesterday (and had it been only yesterday?) had been more than a day’s worth of food at home, but her treacherous stomach was a yawning pit, and she was falling through it.

She stole a sausage. Arthur wouldn’t miss it.

(He did.)

“Where’s the fourth sausage?” Merlyn started guiltily as she wiped her greasy fingers on her sleeve.

“What?”

“I always get four sausages.”

“Four?”

 _“Yes,_ four. You know, one less than five and one more than three? I do presume you know how to count,” he said, in tones that suggested that if she didn’t, she was going to learn very quickly.

“Of course I can _count._ One, two, three, may the Crone help me, it was only one sausage, you’ll live, five, six, seven…”

“ _You_ took my sausage?” Merlyn shrugged. “Why the hell did you take my sausage?”

“Because I was hungry,” she snapped.

“That’s called stealing, _Mer_ lyn.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “It won’t happen again.” She felt in her pocket for her last pieces of Jack by the Hedge as she watched Arthur tuck into the stew and the sausages and the _bread_ – and Maiden’s name but she missed bread. Bannocks and oatcakes were all well and good, a treat, even, but a small, hungry part of her remembered the days when she’d eat meals like this and yearned for them.

The first winter back in Ealdor had been hard. The Druids that had passed her on from camp to camp still ate plentifully, claiming the food to be the Mother of All’s gift to them, and while it was less than what she’d been used to, it had still been more than enough. In her desperate, childish naïveté, she had thought that perhaps that life back home wasn’t so bad, harsh memory cushioned by three hot summers of good eating.

It was.

Much of the harvest had been spoiled, and the local lord’s tax gave no leeway. Merlyn, used to fine, warm clothing and a bed to herself, and abundant meals, had adapted poorly.

The first winter in Ealdor, she had nearly died. Somewhere in the cold snow, she had caught lung-fever, and when the thaw came through and she was well enough to walk, she heard the healer from the next village talking in low undertones to her mam.

 _She’s stopped breathing. Swear it, by my mother’s hearth stone. I checked; no pulse, no nothin’. Sorry, Hunith._ Merlyn had begun to cough from where she lay dozing, and the conversation had ceased abruptly.

“…Merlyn!” Arthur snapped. Merlyn blinked.

“Mmm?”

“I _said,_ clear this lot away.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know why Father ever gave you this job.”

“If you prefer being dead, I’m sure that can be arranged,” she replied blandly, scooping up the tray again and balancing it on her hand. Of _course_ he was eating off silver plates with silver spoons, privileged prat that he was.

“Is that a threat?”

“Is it?” She quirked an eyebrow like she’d seen Gaius do.

“Threatening the crown prince is treason, _Mer_ lyn.”

“Yeah? And why would I go to all the trouble of saving your sorry behind just to kill you later on? It’s not like I _wanted_ to work for you. I thought the King was going to… oh, I don’t know, give me an apology and a bag of gold, but I got saddled with washing your socks instead.” She looked at Arthur out of the corner of her eye as she sidled towards the door, and thought, just for a moment, he looked… disappointed. Or perhaps it had just been a trick of the light.

“So you did it for money,” he said in a resigned voice.

“I did it because it was the right thing to do,” she replied firmly. “But a little money would’ve been nice, you know?”

“Questioning the king’s judgement is also treason, Merlyn.”

“My entire _existence_ is treason,” she muttered, echoing her words to Gaius a few days ago.

“What did you say?” She stopped trying to kick the door open and turned back to regard Arthur slowly. A part of her was sick of the constant concealment of her magic, supressing the thing that came as naturally and as often as breath. Surely, _surely_ she could tell… what, tell the son of the man who executed an entire people for a way of life and living? For being born? She shook her head, at once disgusted with herself and this damned city of stone with poison at its heart.

“Not a thing, sire. Not a thing.”

*

The night air had grown a sharp edge by the time she managed to navigate her way down to Gaius’ chambers. Her jacket was warm enough to survive the unforgiving winters of Ealdor, where the grass turned as grey as the stormy sky, so surely it would serve her just as well here. She slumped down at the table, grateful for the respite against the bone-weariness she felt. There were so many Mother-damned _stairs._

“So, how was your first day as Arthur’s servant?” Gaius asked from behind her. Merlyn shrugged, scratching absent-mindedly at the splint.

“It was awful, and I still have to learn about Camelot’s tournament rules by morning. And clean His Highness’s royal armour. And clean out his stables. Why do I have to clean out his stables, Gaius? Aren’t there, y’know, people who do that?” She paused in her efforts to try and get her finger under the edge of the tight-wrapped bandage to hold out her hand and summon a thick etiquette book in front of her, feeling the familiar rush of magic. Gaius hit her gently round the head, and she glared at him half-heartedly as he took her hand and began to unwrap the bandages.

“Camelot is at war, Myrddin. They had to cut many of the staff.”

“We’re at _what?_ With whom?”

“Mercia. They fight for a little border town that was signed over to Camelot while Bayard’s father was held at swordpoint.” The splint fell to the bench with a clatter, and Merlyn scratched at her arm with relief until Gaius batted her hand away.

“That’s motivation for you.”

Merlyn thumbed through the pages of the book, her heart sinking as she saw the tiny words and pasted-in diagrams spread throughout the section labelled ‘Camellott’. She was eager to get away from the subject of war; it disquieted her, for it put her in mind of nothing so much as a game of chess. The king sits unmoving at the back as the pawns, the knights and the bishops fight to win. The nameless soldiers buried in nameless cairns, the men who hold honour and virtue above all, the saints who die martyrs and the priests who give fading fighters their final, final blessing. Surely the king should be at the front, fighting as fiercely as the rest of his men? Surely, _surely._ But no. The king, who moves little and does little, and in the end, is the most important piece.

(Privately, though, Merlyn thought that the ruthless queen with her tactical advantages over all was the finest one.)

“It says here… oh, I don’t _believe_ this, it says, ‘And alle ladyes who so desyreth to gyf theyr favoure to the moste noble knyghte of theyr own chooseyng shalle presente hym wyth a rybon or symylar clothe, and yt ys to bee no lesse than halfe a fyngyr yn wytth, and not a wyt nor a hayrsbreathe longere than her forarme.’ You have to _measure_ favours?” She scanned through the rest of the paragraph, squinting at the minute lettering as Gaius rebound her wrist.

“Decorum is strict in Camelot. I do believe that Gawant has… laxer customs regarding the movements of court.”

“Yes- no. Sort of. Strict in… a different way. There isn’t a lot of religion and worship here, from what I’ve seen, but a good few years of my upbringing was akin to what girls receive in convents. We – uh, Nida and I – we had to wear a sort of habit, only it was made from real fancy stuff, fine cloth simple cut kind of thing, but we were taught well. Herb lore, Greek and Latin, music, that sort of thing.” Her mouth twisted sardonically. “The Duke himself instructed me in swindling men large sums of money in legal ways. It was… most instructive, to say the least.”

“I was not aware Gwenddydd knew of her true parentage,” Gaius admitted quietly. “Nor you, although in hindsight I suppose I should have known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“After your mother fled her marriage, she stayed in Camelot for a time. This was before the ban on magic was put in place, of course. She confided in me that she did not wish your sister to know her father, for she believed, much like you, I think, that he was a cruel man. She thought that court was no place for a young girl to grow up in. She was biased, I suppose; she was just about raised on the deck of a ship, and on chalk cliffs where she could do as she pleased. Her wedding put rather a stop to that.” 

Merlyn _did_ remember, vaguely, stories of the great salty sea, with its whalefish and crashing waves. Her mother had, as she recalled, been born in the south of Munster in the Western Isle, to the Tiarna of her family’s clann, which probably made Merlyn some sort of lady. She’d never been taught the specifics of Éire peerage.

So Mam had gone back and forth between Éire and the mainland of Albion, up and down the coasts, but coming to port most near Gedref, where there was a strong wool trade. The lord of the area was, in a fact, a duke, Tybalt Ambrosius II. He had a son, near her Mam’s age, and so their fathers schemed and their mothers _arranged_ things. Soon, there was a wedding. Not long after that, there was Ganieda, whom her mother named in secret _Gwendydd,_ because Merlyn’s grandmother in turn had come from Cymru. And when Ganieda was but a few days away from her fifth name-day, her mother ran.

Merlyn tilted her head, looking at Gaius thoughtfully. Nida had said that Mam said something about a brother, once, long ago. She’d spoken bitterly, according to her sister, of how he’d not even bothered to… to…

Ah yes.

“Why didn’t you go to Mam’s wedding?” she asked. Gaius sighed.

“There were two reasons, I suppose. The first was that there was a serious outbreak of plague throughout Camelot at the time, and, I must say that I was not on speaking terms with Father. He wished for me stay in Éire and wait for the time of his death so that I could be elected as the next Chief. I wanted to pursue medicine, and did so without his blessing. I never saw him again.” For a moment he looked wistful. “Still, what’s done is done, my girl.” Merlyn nodded, grunting in agreement. She rubbed at her eyes, glared at the page, then turned to her uncle with a smile on her face.

“So, what do you need help with, then?”

Merlyn trudged out of Gaius’ chambers several candlemarks later, holding the etiquette book under one arm. It bumped irritatingly against the water skin attached to her belt. Truth be told, she hadn’t the faintest idea where she was going, because she was forbidden from climbing until the splint came off completely. She wished she hadn’t been so cocky in front of Gwen a few days previously; if she’d just followed the damned directions, she wouldn’t be lost.

She eventually came to a door that looked vaguely familiar. Two guards were stationed outside it, and they nodded at her with amiable suspicion as she opened the door. Arthur looked up from his desk.

“What is it?” he asked irritably.

Bugger.

Merlyn stammered some sort of apology, hastily backing out of the room. Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Why are you here?”

“I thought it was the weaving room. My mistake. I’ll, um, just-” she began, but he was having none of it.

“Why the hell would you want to go to the weaving room?”

“Because it’s where I work, you prat.” Arthur blinked slowly.

“What did you just call me?”

“Nothing. Your Highness. Er.” He rolled his eyes again, pushing her out of a door and striding ahead.

“Where are you going?”

“To the weaving room. Hurry up.”

“In your… nightclothes.” Arthur looked down and cursed.

“Fetch my jacket from behind the door.” Dutifully, she did so, then paused.

“Would that be the jacket hanging up or the jacket on the floor?”

“ _Mer_ lyn!”

“The one hanging up, then?”

“Just get it.”

“Alright, alright, keep your pants on.” She shoved it at his chest as she walked out again, and he stared at her.

“What?”

“You’re my servant, Merlyn.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Can you tell me what that means?”

“…You want me to wash the other jacket?”

“Yes, but no. Anything else?”

“You want me to sharpen your sword?”

“You’d like as not kill yourself. Guess again.”

“I’m wearing a literal dagger but think what you will. Um… you want me to feed you breakfast?”

“Feed me- why on _earth_ would you feed me breakfast?”

“You’d be surprised. Nope, I give up.” Arthur rested his face in his hand for a moment, exhaling loudly.

“You,” he said in the tones one would normally reserve for addressing a particularly simple child, “dress. Me. Understand?”

“ _Oh,_ right. That one.” She bustled around Arthur for a moment, then laid the book on the floor. “You know, I’m really glad you didn’t want me to feed you. Lord Eaton Bray would get his servants to do that. Most of them ran away.”

“Lord Eaton Bray? Baron Ulton of Eaton Bray?” Arthur stared at her in something like astonishment. “How do you know of him?”

“He…” Merlyn fixed Arthur’s sleeve for something to do while she thought. “He- his men would come through the castle, begging for work.”

“What castle?”

“I don’t know what is was called. Stop moving for a second, please. Thanks.” She stepped back, looking the prince up and down. “All done, let’s go.” She picked up the book with some difficulty. 

“What’re you doing with the old etiquette book?” Arthur asked, sounding properly bemused.

“Reading it.”

“Why?”

“You’re the one who wanted me to learn _all_ about tournament etiquette by morning, so you tell me.”

“Well, you clearly don’t know anything about it. Actually, I’m surprised you _can_ read.”

“You always seem to forget that I told you that I had an excellent education, which, I would like to point out, did teach me about tournaments, thankyouverymuch, just not _Camelot’s_ tournaments, because Camelot’s tournaments are insane.”

“And where was the excellent education of yours, if I may inquire?” Arthur asked sarcastically.

“Gawant. Near the port of Gedref, although I don’t see how it’s any of your business.” The words were out before she could stop them. Slightly horrified at herself, Merlyn snapped her mouth shut, although Arthur seemed to be amused in a faintly puzzled way.

“So you can write.” Merlyn shrugged, nodding. “How well?”

“Well enough.” Arthur began to smirk slowly, looking eerily like Lady Morgana.

“Oh _good,_ ” he said. “I have a job for you. Wait here.” He turned on his heel and began to stride back down the steps two at a time. Merlyn huffed and leant against the wall, opening the book and holding it so close to her face to see the script in the flickering torchlight that her nose was all but touching the page.

She was so absorbed in trying to understand the words when Arthur returned that she all but jumped clean out of her skin when he cleared his throat loudly. Merlyn looked up irritably, snapping the book close with a satisfying sound. The prince was holding a scroll and a quill and an inkbottle; belatedly, she realised it was the same piece of parchment he’d been working on when she’d unwittingly barged into his chambers. He held them out her expectantly, so she tucked the book under her left arm, crooked her right elbow against her body to hold the scroll, and managed to successfully grip the writing implements between her fingers. Merlyn levelled her best unimpressed glower at Arthur.

“The weaving room?” she reminded him acidly. Arthur shrugged, jerking his head stairs-way. He, somehow, had a longer stride than her, despite the fact she was taller than him, and she struggled to keep up. They’d barely gone up a flight before her side started aching, but she gritted her teeth and continued to walk, trying to suck in as shallow breaths as possible. All in all, it was rather counter-productive. They’d gone another two flights and were halfway up a narrow, spiralling staircase when Arthur turned to her, brow creased.

“Do you want to rest?” Merlyn nodded, breath too spent to waste air on words. She sagged against the curved wall, tilting her head back until it met with the jagged rock.

She frowned. The stone felt… different somehow, and not because it was more rough-hewn, but because it had an almost natural feeling about it. Breathing was coming easier now, and, now she came to think of it, the horrible oppressiveness that the castle usually exhumed in inordinate amounts had lessened slightly. She glanced over at Arthur, who was still watching her carefully.

“Stairs,” she said by way of explanation, and he inclined his head like she’d just made a well-rounded, measured statement that including three references in classical Greek. She’d seen it happen before. And then, “Is it just me, or is this bit of the castle different?” Arthur narrowed his eyes.

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s just…” she tipped her head from side to side, trying to think a way of phrasing the words that wouldn’t land her a sword through the throat, “you know, the stone. It’s different.” She looked sideways at the wall. “The shape of the blocks of different, see? These are squarer. And they’re a darker colour, too.”

“It’s the only part of the castle that wasn’t constructed with magic,” he muttered. Merlyn stared.

_“What.”_

“There’s an old children’s story about Cornelius Sigan, one of the greatest sorcerers of his time. He built Camelot with magic. Most of it, anyway, except for this staircase.” He sounded sullen. Merlyn continued to stare, biting her lip, then began to laugh helplessly.

“I fail to see what’s so amusing about it,” Arthur said stiffly.

“Your father- hates-” She jerked her head against the wall in her mirth, and stopped mid-cackle. “ _Ow._ Your father hates magic, right? And he lives - get this -- in a _castle made from magic.”_ She continued to snicker, while Arthur assumed an expression of sufferance. “I’m sorry, it’s just- can’t you appreciate the irony? Just a bit?”

“Magic is an evil, and it is only by the strength and diligence of my father’s rule that we are not corrupted by it.” He stomped up the stairs, anger permeating every step. Merlyn blinked at his receding shadowy form, then began to trail after him.

“What did I say?”

“Magic is not a _joke_ , Merlyn. It is a… corruption. Twenty years ago, my father began The Great Purge to rid these lands of it, and his work continues today. Surely you understand – that mad woman you… saved me from last night was tainted by it.” And wow, didn’t _that_ make her feel like the scum of the earth. Part of her wanted to show off, do some flashy tricks, just out of sheer belligerence, but that would accomplish nothing except death.

“If that’s what you think, then fine.” Clearly, Arthur was much more aware than she gives him credit for, because he immediately latched onto this.

“And what do _you_ think?” he asked evenly.

…Oh no.

“I grew up in Essetir. Where I come from, sorcerers are pitied, more often than not. Hated, yeah, but it’s hard to laugh at people kept like disobedient dogs for the way they were born or whatever.”

“I have heard certain rumours regarding Cenred’s behaviour in this matter,” Arthur said in the same, calm tone.

“There was a girl who came to my village, once,” Merlyn said softly. “She’d barely come into her majority. Would’ve been… oh, ten and five summers old. And she had these _scars_ all across her face and her back, and these massive chains, and when we managed to get them off her, her wrists were all scarred too, where the manacles were, and she just kept _screaming_ and crying and saying that she’d be good. It was…awful. Then she just took off, in the middle of winter. We could hear the wolves. Um. We think she threw herself off the bridge.” She looked up at Arthur fiercely. “If you say that it was all she deserved, I may hit you.”

“Why would I say that?” Arthur sounded horrified. “ _God-_ no, why would I say that?” Merlyn ignored this very casual blasphemy in favour of taking a keen interest in the state of her boots.

“One of the older boys did. I punched him,” she added with visceral satisfaction. “Knocked his front teeth. Personally, most of the village was on my side.”

“And the rest of them?”

“We punched them too.” Admittedly, Old Man Simmons had called for Merlyn to be left outside for a night to teach her a lesson, but he wasn’t exactly her number one fan. Also, she’d accidently let the goats into his vegetable patch, so it was no wonder, really.

“And if I said that you would’ve punched me?”

“Undoubtably. You’d have to be a right bastard to think that.” They walked in silence for a while, then Arthur said, abruptly,

“We’re here.”

“Thanks. Um,” she directed a withering glower at the closed door, but it remained obstinately shut. “Can you open the door?” Dutifully, Arthur pushed at it, but to no avail.

“It’s not opening,” he said flatly.

“What do you _mean,_ it’s not opening?”

“I thought you weren’t deaf?” Arthur asked sarcastically, shoving at the door.

“Oh, _wow,_ that’s _really_ mature-”

“Your Highness?” interrupted the guard standing impassively a few feet away. They both turned to glare at him, and he flinched. “It’s just…”

“Yes?”

“…It opens the other way.”

“It opens the other way,” Merlyn repeated blankly. “Oh. Um. Right. Right.” Slowly, Arthur pulled, and, sure enough, the door opened. “Thanks.” She picked her way over to her stool, setting the book down and looking quizzically at Arthur, holding the parchment out in question.

“What do you want me to do with this?”

“Write it.”

“Thanks. Not really, but thanks.” Merlyn rooted around the mantlepiece above the fireplace, finally emerging with a candle that had been hardly used, setting it in the holder next to the loom. “Good night-” she wondered what she should call him. Not Arthur, certainly, but sire had a definite bootlicker ring to it, and she wasn’t actually sure she could say the words _my lord_ without making them sound sarcastic. “Um. Good night,” she repeated. Arthur sighed.

“Good night, Merlyn.”

She thoughtfully passed the shuttle back and forth for a while, then abandoned it for the scroll. She read through it, grimacing at the mess Arthur had made of his words, then took up the shuttle again. Occasionally, she placed it down to write down a particular phrase, then, when the candle burned low, she took the rule leaning against the wall and measured how much she had woven, marking it down on the wax tablet hanging next to her loom.

Then she got another candle.


	10. In Which Merlyn's Strength Is Revealed To Her and She Panics; A Brief Moment Of Domesticity in The Early Morning; We Meet The Guy With Snakes Upon His Shield and He is Smarmy and A Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I ask where your strainer is, will you answer me?” she asked in a slightly flippant tone.  
> “If I ask you to mind your manners better, would you?” Gaius returned. Merlyn grimaced.  
> “Sorry.”  
> “Try under the rabbit mask.”  
> “What?”  
> “The strainer. I think it’s under the rabbit mask.”  
> “…Right.” She retrieved it, staring at her uncle. “Why do you have a rabbit mask?” Gaius said nothing. “Right. One of those questions you’re not answering, then, I take it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at me updating my fic on time, despite the fact I don't have a schedule! sorry if you got a notification from me before, I accidentally pressed post before I was ready, for I am a Fool and I am jingling miserably across the floor to deliver this to you.  
> if any of you listen to the absolutely amazing podcast Destiny and Chicken by Fascination and Frustration Podcasts, I'm sure you'll know what I mean when I say that Gaius Is The Worst. (lol even if you don't -BUT YOU SHOULD COS IT'S GREAT- you'll know what I mean. His full worst-ness is to be revealed in the following chapter.) warnings are in the end notes.

Merlyn awoke to someone gently shaking her shoulder. She opened one eye groggily, squinting at the face of one of the twins – Ellie, she thought, although it was hard to tell.

“You, um, you were asleep when I came in,” Ellie explained in a soft voice. “I thought it best to wake you.”

“Umf.” Merlyn pushed herself up from where she had fallen asleep doubled over on her knees, stretching like a cat. Today was an off day, apparently. Her neck hurt, her side was throbbing, and her wrist was aching to no end. It was freezing cold, and her fingers were half-numb. Oh yeah, and Arthur’s speech was stuck to her forehead. There was a slight tearing sound as she pulled the parchment away, and she looked down, mentally scanning through the notes from the night before. Some of them made exactly zero sense, but others… well, she could work with that.

She scooped up the etiquette book that lay open on her lap, rolled up the parchment, picked up the quill and then put everything down again to stopper the ink and shove it in one of her jacket’s pockets, where it sat uncomfortably against her ribs, bulging in a most conspicuous manner. Merlyn threw a half-hearted grin in Ellie’s direction, and sauntered out the door. She sneezed, sucked in a breath, then instantly regretted it. The air was sharper than needles, and her jacket very clearly was not up to the job of keeping her warm enough, if her chilled back was anything to go by.

It was odd. Barely two sennights had passed since Samhain, and yet it was almost as cold as Midwinter, when the earth turned brown and died and frosts settled thickly on the withered grass. Merlyn had seen snow nought but twice, and the possibility of it falling so early in winter had not occurred to her. She shivered, shrugging her shoulders to try and adjust the scarf so it at least sat properly around her neck, then jerked her head forward in an effort to straighten the neckerkerchief covering her hair, yawning all the while and screwing her eyes almost completely shut at the stabbing brightness of the torches lining the corridors.

When she arrived at Arthur’s chamber, she balanced on one foot, and, with the other, pushed up the latch, ignoring the bemused looks the guards were giving her. She stared for a moment at the hinge, trying to ascertain whether it swung inward or outward, then pushed it open as quietly as possible. The room within was dark, and once she closed the door again, she could see almost nothing, save for what was illuminated by the dim glow from the hearth. Tentatively, Merlyn took a few steps, squinting in gloom. There was the bed, and there was his dining table…

Eventually, she managed to make it to the desk without walking into anything, although it was a near miss several times. She dumped everything onto the surface, put a log on the fire, then rummaged around until she found a candle, lighting it with a taper conveniently situated on the mantle. Then she picked a new piece of parchment from a pile, took the old one, the quill and the ink, and set the candle in its dish on the dining table, which she proceeded to sit on.

When Merlyn judged that she’d written enough of the speech to satisfy Arthur, she slid off her perch, padded over quietly to his bedside table, and sat the candle down. She stood next to his bed for a moment, then reached out and shook his shoulder. She heard the slight pause in his breathing before it resumed and felt him tense momentarily beneath her hand.

“I know you’re awake,” Merlyn announced to the chamber at large, shaking him again for emphasis. “Get up.” There was no reply. “Get _up,_ ” she repeated, and then removed her hand and whipped off his covers. Arthur curled up into a ball instinctively, making a noise of protest, then turned his head to glare at her sleepily.

“Why the-” he paused, yawning, _“-hell_ are you waking me up so early? Where’s breakfast?”

“Good morning to you too, sire,” Merlyn answered blandly. “Get _up,_ for _pity’s_ sake, I need to make the bed.” Arthur didn’t move.

“What about breakfast?”

“What abou-? Oh. Right. Sorry, I forgot some people ate breakfast.” Arthur frowned slightly, looking confused.

“And you don’t?”

“Nope. Get up. This is the last time I tell you.”

“I was under the impression that _I_ was the one that gave orders.”

“Really? That’s nice.” She grabbed his shirt by the scruff of the neck and pulled him bodily onto the floor, then yanked the blankets back before he could react. In response, he shut his eyes tightly, curling up further still. Merlyn sighed.

“Look,” she said, “If you get up, I’ll get you breakfast, alright?” She moved towards the door. “Do I just… ask for your breakfast from the kitchens?” Arthur grunted. “Great. Great.”

When she returned bearing a tray laden with hot oatmeal, bacon, sausages and spiced wine, Arthur was seated at the dining table, a piece of parchment in one hand. He looked up as she entered, his brow furrowed.

“You wrote this?” he asked. Merlyn set down the tray in front of him and stepped back, shifting from foot to foot nervously.

“…Yes?”

“On your own?”

“I'm… sorry?” Merlyn hazarded. Arthur turned to look at her.

“What? What are you talking about? I didn’t actually expect you to _write_ this for me, but this is… actually pretty good.” He smiled, and, hesitantly, she smiled back, sliding onto the table next to where he was seated and crossing her legs.

“You had some good ideas, I just… y’know, tweaked ‘em a bit.” Arthur nodded, looking back down at the speech, and she shot one hand out and grabbed a sausage, biting it in two hurriedly.

“I read up on tournament etiquette too,” she said through a mouthful of partially-masticated sausage. “Still don’t get why you have so many different types, though. I mean, in one you can kill, and another you can absolutely not kill, and one that you shouldn’t kill but it’s mostly alright if you do… Just, _why?”_ Naturally, she received no reply to her complaint, other than a irritated rebuke for eating his food.

“Sorry.” She swallowed. “Actually, I have a question.”

“No surprise there.”

“Who’s the next in line to the throne?” Arthur stopped, a spoonful of oatmeal halfway to his mouth.

“Why?” Merlyn shrugged.

“I was just thinking, right, what if you died in a tournament? Who’s gonna assume the throne after your father? Also, what if me saving your life was just one overarching plot to get into your service and I’ve poisoned your food?” Arthur, caught in the act of putting the spoon to his lips, paused again, and carefully replaced it in the bowl.

“I mean,” she added, “I didn’t, but I could’ve. They just accepted me into your service because I saved your life. Do you have _any_ idea how not good that is? I’m some random unknown, from another kingdom, who just happened to be in the right place at the right time to push you out of the way of a dagger, and they didn’t even give me… I don’t know, a background check or something?” She waved her hands in the air in a sarcastic manner. “Look at me, with my sudden new access to state secrets! If I wanted to, I could literally start another war. That would be incredibly easy. You’ve already let me write your speech. I could just, y’know, grab another piece of your fancy parchment over there, write down something suitably aggressive, steal your seal ring, which you’ve left sitting out in the open, by the way, seal it, and send it on its merry way.” Arthur stared at her.

“Do I need to arrest you?” he asked. Merlyn considered this for a moment, then shook her head.

“Nah. That was all in the hypothetical, anyway. I was just,” she shrugged, “making a point. So, the throne?”

“A second cousin of mine is next in line after me, I believe.” Merlyn shoved the rest of the sausage in her mouth.

“Cool. Hey, you want that sausage?”

“Does that mean you haven’t poisoned it?”

“Sure. So, do you?” Arthur glared at her, hand hovering protectively over his plate.

_“Yes.”_

“I was just asking.”

“Well, I’m _just asking_ you not to steal my food.” Merlyn shrugged.

When Arthur had finished, she took his tray, and, in true fashion, tripped with it as she crossed the short distance from the table to the door. She winced at the harsh clattering, hearing Arthur sigh loudly behind her.

Things started to go downhill rather rapidly from there. She put Arthur’s shirt on backwards when she dressed him, and messed up the ties on the front, because Gaius had wrapped her fingers up when he was changing her bandages, probably to prevent her from climbing when she wasn’t supposed to. Eventually, Arthur had turned away with a disgusted noise, nimble hands threading the lace through with apparent ease. And now they were on the training fields, and she was trying not to scream as she did up the iron buckles on Arthur’s thingamy. Pauldron.

“You do know the tournament starts _today?”_ Breathe in, breathe out, try not to notice the cold iron burning, breathe in, breathe out, ignore the pain, _ignore it-_

“Yes, sire.” She put her fingers in her mouth for a second, then blew on them, trying to cool the angry welts forming. She looked at Arthur, noting the set of his jaw and his stiff posture. “You nervous?”

“I don’t get nervous,” he answered in what she thought was a rather surly tone. Merlyn shook her hand rapidly in an attempt to stop the pain. She knew she shouldn’t say anything to annoy him further, but…

“I thought everyone got nervous.”

(…Well, she’d always had terrible impulse control.)

He turned to look at her then, snarling.

“Will you shut up!” Merlyn stepped back involuntarily, swallowing.

_Children such as you should be seen and not heard._

She snatched up the cape, throwing it over Arthur’s shoulders and fiddling with the bronze discs of the clasp, finally managing to tie it in a clumsy knot, then picked up his helmet from a bench and handed it to him. Merlyn licked her lips nervously, standing back to admire her handywork.

“I… yep, great, I think you’re all set.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Arthur asked brittlely. Merlyn frowned. Yeah, there _was_ something- “My _sword?”_

Ah.

Merlyn took his sword from the rack, presenting it with an overmuch amount of ceremony and giving a flourishing bow when he took it. Arthur rolled his eyes and stalked away. She watched him go, red cloak fluttering in the breeze, and said, to no one in particular:

“Well, that went well.”

Then she followed after him.

*

Merlyn watched Arthur fight, feeling a certain amount of déjà vu and a _lot_ of inner turmoil. Because Arthur was… strange. There had been this morning, when he had seemed… well, almost kind. He had been genuinely impressed with the speech she had written, and he had been grumpy that he’d been woken at _an unholy hour, so God help me_ , but that made him all the more human. Now, though…

A few days ago, Merlyn had hated Arthur. Really, _really_ hated Arthur. But, as much as she tried, the hatred had vanished. Which was annoying, because she would rather paint it in black and white, Arthur and Merlyn, the wrong-doing and the righteous, rather do that than discover that he was human and that he might not like her with the same intensity as she didn’t (hadn’t) liked him, which was strangely unbearable.

Arthur won the round. And the next, and the next. So did some guy with snakes on his shield. He was good-looking, she supposed, in an arrogant sort of way, but when she did some careful poking at his second-skin, it was foully oily and brash.

…Yeah. She didn’t like him.

She liked him even less when he came to offer Arthur congratulations as Merlyn fixed one of the straps on Arthur’s breastplate.

“Likewise,” Arthur replied, because apparently he had good manners sometimes.

“I hope to see you at the reception this evening,” the other guy smarmed. Merlyn wrinkled her nose as he flounced off.

“Creep,” she said. To her surprise, Arthur snorted, then covered it up quickly with a cough. She grinned.

“Uh, for tomorrow you need to prepare my shield, wash my tunic, clean my boots, sharpen my sword and polish my armour.” He started to walk away, and Merlyn ran to catch up with him.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“My chambers. I need to change for the reception. I won’t be requiring your services after you dress me.”

And because along with a complete lack of impulse control, Merlyn also had a complete lack of self-preservation, she asked:

“How come you can’t dress yourself? You’re not a child.”

Arthur said nothing.

“You… do know how do dress yourself, don’t you?” she asked, more uncertain. Arthur continued to say nothing. “Dear Mother,” Merlyn sighed. _“How?”_

“Shut up, _Mer_ lyn.”

“No, really, I’m curious as to how you don’t how to dress yourself-”

“I _said. S_ hut. Up. That was an order from your prince, is that clear?”

“Clear.”

It turned out that Arthur wasn’t actually sure of the precise location of his dress robes, but she eventually found them chucked haphazardly in a draw, his crown alongside them, almost half a candlemark from when they arrived in his chambers. They were discoloured and crumpled, and they stank like a pig’s trough.

“You’re disgusting,” she enunciated. Arthur ignored her. “Hey- _no,_ look at the state of these robes! Look at them!” She shoved them under his nose, and he frowned, drawing away slightly to regard them better.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“What’s wrong with- no, I am shocked. Truly. _Look at the state of these._ ”

“I am looking.”

“They,” she shook them at him, “are _filthy,_ and I am certainly not letting you walk around, _representing your kingdom,_ in some ratty old clothes that haven’t been washed for a _year_.”

“Nine months.”

“Oh, wow, that makes it so much better,” she said sarcastically. “From now on, you put your dirty clothes in a pile behind the screen until I take them down to the laundry. Hey, are you even listening to me? _All_ your dirty clothes. Behind there. And please, please tell me you have another set of robes you can wear.”

Eventually they found some, although they bickered the entire time they searched. (‘It’s _not that bad, Mer_ lyn.’ ‘Yeah, only if you want to look like a twenty-year-old _corpse._ ’) They were slightly moth-eaten and smelt incredibly musty. Merlyn solved this by throwing a bowl of scented water at Arthur, who protested strongly at this treatment, but who also now didn’t smell like he’d been sweating in an old cupboard. He’d given her a disbelieving look when she’d told him that, though. Then she’d piled all of his gear into her arms and set off in the direction of Gaius’ quarters.

Unfortunately, though, she didn’t get much – or any – time to clean anything, for no sooner than she arrived than Gaius had informed her that he needed to check on her wound, but quickly, because he wanted to test how much she knew about herbs. This shouldn't have come as much of a surprise to Merlyn as it did, given she was now his apprentice and all.

“It seems to be healing nicely,” he said at last.

“Great. That’s- yeah, that’s great.” She made to stand up.

“But Myrddin?”

“Yeah?”

“I think, perhaps, you should wash.”

“What do you-” Merlyn sniffed at her armpit and recoiled. “-Oh. I see.” She screwed her nose up. “And people have been letting me walk around, stinking like this?” She thought back to the strange expression Arthur had been wearing while she lectured him on the virtues of smelling cleanly and groaned. Some days, she thought, the Crone had a particularly ironic sense of humour.

“You’ll find the water barrel and a bucket and soap in that corner,” Gaius told her. “And you can wash up in the storeroom.”

A while later, Merlyn emerged fresh from the storeroom, dressed in her tunic and her hose. Which, she realised, she should really get a second pair of, because at this point the only time the pants would be parted from her would be when they straight-up fell off her skin in tatters.

Hah. Oh well. It wasn’t like she had money to spend, anyway.

“What would I use Coltsfoot for?” Gaius asked suddenly. Merlyn blinked.

“Coltsfoot…?”

“Yes. What would I use it for?” Slowly, the beast of recollection stirred in Merlyn’s mind. Coltsfoot, Coltsfoot…

“Coltsfoot…” Merlyn mused to herself. “Coltsfoot is to be used for treating illness of the lungs. This includes coughs, wheezing, and shortness of breath. Uh, it can also be used for… fevers, I think. And… external swelling.” Gaius nodded.

“Very good.” He held up a plant. “What’s this?”

“Monkshood.”

“And what is it?”

“A poison. A very not nice poison.”

“How do you make an antidote?” Aha, a trick question. Merlyn prided herself on picking it out, so she answered, perhaps a little smugly:

“You don’t.” Gaius rounded on her.

“Wrong! Today, my girl, you’re going to learn how to make the antidote for Monkshood.” Gaius held up a strange-looking plant Merlyn had never seen before.

“Do you know what this is?” Mutely, she shook her head. “Mary’s Lips, also known as Dragonbreath. In large quantities it can be lethal, but when you pair it with… _this_ ,” he took down a bunch of herbs drying over his bench, then looked at her expectantly.

“…Comfrey.”

“Precisely. Pair it with this, then cook it in water – slowly, otherwise it catches afire and the batch is ruined – until it turns brown. _Then_ you strain it, twice, add half an Elecampane flower and all of the pollen, which turns it the colour of goldenrod, or thereabouts. Then it must cool. After a candlemark passes, you place it back over the heat, then let a piece of willowbark covered in honey sit in it for a while. Then you strain it again, and store it somewhere cool. Do you get all that?” Merlyn blinked.

“I… think so?”

“Good. Then you can make it.” Gaius sat down on the bench, watching her.

“By myself?”

“Why not?” For many reasons, Merlyn thought, but shrugged.

“Can I ask you questions?”

“Of course. I may not answer them, but you may ask them. Use the beaker there and take some coals from the fire and put them in the brazier beneath it. Fill it with water, too.” Merlyn did this, then paused.

“How much of each do I need?” she ventured. Gaius nodded.

“Good thinking. My last apprentice just took some of each and put it in. That didn’t serve him well, to say the least.” While Merlyn puzzled over this statement, Gaius added, “There are some scales behind you, and a few weights. Take the one with three marks etched upon it.” Merlyn did so. “Now cut off the leaves from the Dragonbreath. You only need the stems. Weigh out enough to balance the scales.” This took some time, but eventually Merlyn had enough. “And five comfrey leaves, I should think. Watch it carefully, now.” Merlyn crouched down until her eyes were level with the bench top, studying the gently bubbling mixture intently. Slowly, it turned brown.

“Now?” she asked. Gaius shrugged.

“You tell me.” Taking a deep breath, Merlyn grasped the top of the beaker and lifted it. The glass was hotter than she expected, and she dropped it in shock, only to catch it with magic. Gaius raised an eyebrow, and carefully, she took off her scarf, which was rather dirty at this point, and wrapped it around her hand to protect it, then set the beaker firmly on the bench.

“If I ask where your strainer is, will you answer me?” she asked in a slightly flippant tone.

“If I ask you to mind your manners better, would you?” Gaius returned. Merlyn grimaced.

“Sorry.”

“Try under the rabbit mask.”

“What?”

“The strainer. I think it’s under the rabbit mask.”

“…Right.” She retrieved it, staring at her uncle. “Why do you have a rabbit mask?” Gaius said nothing. “Right. One of those questions you’re not answering, then, I take it.” Concentrating, she raised one hand in the air, willing the water to follow it. Slowly, the water rose out of the beaker. Brow furrowed, Merlyn placed the strainer across the beaker and painstakingly drew the water through it, then repeated the process. At the end of it, her head was starting to hurt, but she nonetheless put the beaker back over the brazier and drew at the fire until the embers burned bright again. She glanced over at Gaius, who was looking awed.

“Myrddin,” he said slowly. “How difficult was that for you?” Merlyn frowned at him, not understanding. Already the headache was beginning to fade, which was nice, because she hated headaches.

“Not particularly. It makes my head hurt a bit, but not very much or for very long. It’s just a concentration thing, and I haven’t done sort of thing in a while.”

“Myrddin,” Gaius said again.

“Yeah?” She grabbed a drying Elecampane flower from a bunch hanging just above her head, using her dagger to cut it cleanly in two and scrape the rest of the pollen into the beaker.

“I’m not entirely sure how to tell you this…”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you are possibly the most powerful magic user I have ever seen.” Merlyn dropped the dagger onto the fingers of her left hand. Swearing loudly, she clamped her other hand onto it, which made the iron-burns on her fingertips sting.

“What- _how?_ I’m… come _on,_ Gaius, you’ve got to be pulling my leg. I’m ten-and-six. There’s no _way-_ no. Why-? Why would you say that?” Making a clicking sound the back of his throat, Gaius threw a bandage at her, which she barely managed to catch.

“Water magic is incredibly difficult to perform. Even High Priestesses could only do it sparingly, and always with an incantation. And you did it with ease, and silently, too. I’ve never seen such a high control of non-verbal magic. Usually, it’s tied to very strong emotions and only shows itself in response to these, and it is almost impossible to control. And yet… you did.” Merlyn stopped wrapping the new bandage over her fingers to frown, biting her lip.

“I- that’s-” she gave up on speech. She felt faintly like she was underwater. She’d almost drowned, once, in Mother Finniga’s pond, only to be saved by Will. That had been the start of their friendship. She felt dizzy, and the headache had returned.

 _Breathe._ She needed to remember to breath. _Breathe, damn it!_ She sucked in a shuddering breath, then another, until she was breathing at an even pace, although it still felt as though her lungs were empty. She turned her head, fighting the urge to cry, and bit down instead on the inside of her cheek. _And yet… you did you did greatest magic-user- Emrys Emrys Emrys did it with ease-_

The potion turned golden. Like magic, like that damn place she went when she fell from the tree a sennight ago.

_Breathe. Breathe. Concentrate on the pain. Goddamnit!_

Merlyn grabbed the beaker once again, not flinching as the glass burned her skin. She placed it down on the bench, gripping tight enough she was sure it was going to shatter, and tensed her half-bound fingers, digging it into the wood of the work surface. With trembling hands, she took one of the time-keeping candles from the special box and lit the taper with the coals from the brazier, setting it in the candle-dish.

“I’m- going outside to get some fresh air,” she said haltingly, locking her jaw as she heard her voice crack and waver. _Mother,_ she sounded as though she were half her age, a pathetic, useless child. Gaius nodded at her, and she slipped through the door.

Outside, the sun was setting, streaking the sky vivid shades of red and orange. Merlyn leant against the balcony, then tore off her headscarf, combing through her still-wet hair shakily, then twisted her fingers into the damp locks, pulling on them as hard as she could. Then she really did cry, soundlessly, the tears rolling her cheeks and dripping off her chin into the courtyard far below. How could _she –_ she, Merlyn – be _the most powerful magic user Gaius had ever seen?_ It didn’t make sense. Oh, she had magic, she’d always had magic, but most powerful-? It _didn’t make sense._

She lifted her head to watch the sun go out in a last blaze of light, drumming her fingers mindlessly on the edge of the balcony as she turned her gaze towards the brilliantly-lit feast hall. Dark figures moved about within it, but she thought that she could recognise Arthur.

Feeling slightly calmer, although not by much, she ventured back indoors, replacing her headscarf as she went. A quick check informed her that the candle had barely burned at all. Merlyn sighed and squatted down on the floor, surveying the ragtag bundle of Arthur’s belongings, before grabbing the stained tabard and cloak and fetching the tin pail from the storeroom. She filled it full of water and set it in the hearth to heat, then found the polishing rag Arthur had chucked at her and settled down to clean his armour.

When the water was bubbling, Merlyn gestured to the pail, feeling her magic shudder and twang as she lifted it jerkily from the fire. Her magic hadn’t acted up like this since… well, she’d held control for a very long time, unless she counted the nightmare from a few days ago. Putting down the half-cleaned pauldron, she took the soap from where she had set it down after bathing and cautiously fished out a corner of the cloak with her magic. Then she set to scrubbing the filthy clothes, and, when she’d finished and checked the candle, took her own dirty garments from where she’d threw them in a heap on top of her bag and cleaned them too. She was just draping the sopping things over a line in the backroom normally reserved for hanging herbs when she glanced through the open doorway and saw, to her horror, that the candle was burning the mark. Without thought, she did the only thing she could.

Merlyn froze time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for a mild panic attack, based mostly off my own experience two weeks ago when I got back my maths results :)))


	11. The Right Questions; In Which Merlyn Needs to Ask If the Drink is Poisoned; The Restless Dead; Tristan and Mary; Gold-er

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate this bye <3
> 
> edit 25/02/'21 - but!! I made concept art for it! https://maestthelaundrycryptid.tumblr.com/post/644079213244284928/from-my-fic

When she was two-and-ten, Merlyn worked out that if she froze time and did all her chores, she could have the rest of the day to do as she wished. Of course, she did not factor in a mother’s ability to always find more jobs, but she froze time and did those, too. That winter, she had caught lung-sickness. Again. Leading into the winter, she had been growing sickly and steadily weaker, until she could barely move from her sleeping-spot, and when the lung-fever struck, she’d almost died. _Again._ Two years _in a row._ And it had returned, and no matter how little or how easy work she was given around the village, Merlyn stayed frail and easily sickening.

Scholars of the Old Religion that was so intertwined with magic the way her own beliefs were not, termed this _magical exhaustion._ But Merlyn wasn’t to know this.

So she had refrained from freezing time there on out, simply slowing it if the need arose, like when she saved Arthur, or had to stop the tree she’d magically felled from falling on Old Man Simmons’ head. Also, when her mother found out about how she was getting her chores done so quickly, she had forbidden Merlyn from ever doing it again. It had been one of the few times in her life she’d seen her mother scared.

 _‘Do not meddle with that which you do not understand!’_ her mother had cried. Merlyn didn’t understand a whole lot of things, like why the sun rose and set, or why rain fell – but when she pointed this out, Hunith had looked at her and said, _‘And you would interfere with those things too?’_ in a tone of voice that suggested that there would be terrible consequences if Merlyn did not answer rightly.

Shaking her head to try and rid herself of the memory, Merlyn reached out to where the beaker sat upon the bench, deftly placing it back onto the three-legged stand. In the brazier below, however, the coals had gone quite cold and dark. So she ventured over to the hearth, plucking a few bright-hot lumps from it, leaving a strange hole in the fire. She didn’t burn her fingers, however; there was no temperature here, in this strange, in-between place hidden in the space between seconds, because temperature required time, a beginning and an end, a period of change. She cleared out the brazier and dropped the new coals in, then snapped her fingers and felt the air around her shift slowly until time resumed.

Nausea rose up within her as the logs in the fire settled with a contended, muffled crash. She staggered, bracing one hand on the workbench and the other on her forehead, drumming it with the flat of her hand as she tried to rid herself of the pounding in her skull. Merlyn gulped down great huffs of air, wiping sweat off her face from where it had beaded on her pallid skin. Gaius blinked where he sat, then jumped as he saw her, looking first to the now-empty storeroom, then back to Merlyn.

“How did you get over there?” he asked guardedly. And then, “When did you remove the beaker?” And, “Why are you suddenly perspiring?”

Merlyn shrugged.

“I’m very talented,” she informed her uncle in a deadpan tone. She had the feeling that saying, ‘oh, I froze time, nothing to worry about, it was quite easy, actually,’ would quite possibly give him a heart attack. Gaius nodded, frowning.

“…I see.”

“Where’s your honey and your willowbark?” Merlyn asked, trying to steer the conversation away. If Gaius noticed, he said not a word, for which she was grateful. 

“In the jar with the red fabric tied over the top. It’s on the bench somewhere, to your right, I should think.” Merlyn grabbed it, untying the tight knot securing the scrap of fabric over the jar with her teeth, and tucked the now-open jar between her body and the splint on her arm, fishing out the piece of willowbark and holding it gingerly between thumb and forefinger as it dribbled honey everywhere, then dropped it into the beaker. The mixture hissed, a small curl of steam rising as the two substances reacted, and carefully, Merlyn tipped the rest of the honey in, licking her fingers when the last dregs had dripped out. She looked over to Gaius for confirmation that she’d done the right thing, but he merely raised an eyebrow.

“Was I… meant to add the honey?” Merlyn asked worriedly. The old man looked at her for a long moment.

“I don’t know, where you?” he replied. She bit her lip worriedly. She had the notion that she’d just done something wrong, which was worrying, because it meant that the concoction would be useless, and she’d wasted all this time for nothing.

“I think that… I’m not sure. You’ll critique later and tell me what I did wrong, right?”

“Oh yes. You will learn very quickly, my girl.” Merlyn decided she didn’t quite like the gleam in Gaius’ eye as he said that. It was unsettling. And worrying.

“How long is ‘a while’?” she ventured. Gaius glanced at her.

“Approximately a fifth of a candlemark.”

“So, like- Yeah, okay. Gotcha.” Merlyn pulled herself into a Tailor’s Sit on a clear patch of the bench, watching the candle closely. After the allotted time had passed, she magicked the beaker off the tripod stand it sat upon, dragging the water out once again. Some drops splashed onto the wood below, and she frowned, forcing herself to concentrate even harder. Her side throbbed in response. She pulled the antidote through the strainer rather sharper than she intended to, spilling more of it in the process. But it was done.

She sat on the floor – it was do that or collapse – hanging her head between her knees and bracing her hands on the back of her neck.

“Myrddin?” said Gaius’ voice from somewhere above her.

“Mmm?”

“Are you alright?”

“Jus’… tired, is all.” She squeezed her eyes shut tightly in a futile attempt to stop her head from feeling like it was imploding.

“Would you like some spiced ale? I cannot recommend it highly enough.” Merlyn lifted her head just enough to eyeball him.

“Is that in your opinion as an alcohol connoisseur or a physician?”

“Yes,” he replied. Merlyn snorted. Spiced ale sounded amazing right now, and it would either give her the kick she needed to re-energise her, or send her to sleep. Either option was welcome.

“Yes, please.” She lay back on the floor, staring at the high-up ceiling, which made her skull feel like someone was hitting a war-hammer against it. Merlyn groaned and closed her eyes. There was the sound of liquid being poured into a mug, then a soft, odd noise like someone pulling a stopper out of a vial. She didn’t really care. Caring took too much effort.

“Here you go, my girl.” Merlyn sat up slowly, taking the mug that was pushed into her hands. She drank the entire thing down, wincing at the bitterness of the drink, which was weird, because she’d had spiced ale before in the depths of autumn and winter, and it had lacked the bitter overtones this now had.

Huh. Maybe Camelot's stills were just inferior to Ealdor's. It wouldn’t surprise her.

She swallowed the last of the dregs, licking her lips. Her throat was burning, but that might've... yeah, she had no idea why it felt like that.

“Thanks for that,” she said, passing the empty mug back.

“Are you feeling any better?” Merlyn belched into her hand.

“Mm,” she agreed, then frowned. “My tongue feels a bit numb, though. And my throat hurts.”

“Ah. I expect that will pass, given time.”

...Weird.

“So what do we do now?”

 _“You_ are going to clean up, then I'm going to give you a book on... let me see...” he wandered over to one of the lower shelves, browsing through tomes, some as thick as a man's thigh, others thinner than Merlyn's smallest finger, all beautifully bound with leather. “...Yes, this one will do nicely.” He pulled a sizeable book away, holding it in one arm. “And this one, and... this one, I should think.” He piled two smaller volumes of a similar size atop the first. Merlyn hesitated, then took a clean-looking rag from a bag hanging by the door, wet it in the water-barrel, and began clean up the mess she’d made, wiping things down and putting them where they belonged. When she had finished, she seated herself on a stool, looking up at him expectantly. Gaius handed her a book.

“This is a guide to herbs found within the area of Camelot and how they can be used, compiled by myself and an old friend I used to work with,” he told her. “Read now the section marked with the strips of leather. I advise you commit as much to memory as possible, for I will be testing you tomorrow. You may borrow the book until then, providing you don’t ruin it. This is the only copy in existence.” Nodding, Merlyn took it reverently, thumbing through the pages and admiring the illustrations until she reached the beginning of the section. It was titled, _Herbs And Plants Of Particular Magical Affinity, Such As May Be Sought Without The Walls Of The Camelot Citadel, And How One May Brew Many Cures From Them._

“Isn’t this against the law?” she asked, suddenly worried. “What if the prince sees me reading this?”

“You'll think of something, my girl,” he replied, which Merlyn found not in the slightest reassuring. “Besides, he wouldn’t be able to read the Old Script. It's been banned in Camelot for more than twenty years.” Merlyn blinked, pushing down her objections.

“And what makes you think I can? Read it, I mean?”

“Turn four pages over,” Gaius instructed. Merlyn did so. “Read aloud.”

“‘A cure to assist in proclivity in the bed-cham-“ she began.

“Not that one!” he cut in hurriedly.

“What to do in case of a limp-"

“Not that one either! Look for the one that says something about enchanting plants.”

...An enchantment for plants so that they may give all that they have?”

“That’s the one.” Gaius reached up, then set a bit of Dragonbreath in her hands. “Down the bottom, you will find words in another script. Try to read them.” Doubtfully, Merlyn looked to the bottom of the page. In red ink, there were indeed words in another alphabet.

“I can't-"

_“Try.”_

Merlyn laid a hand on the words, bending almost double to read the fine lettering.

 _“_ _Seópan ærest wearð feasceaft funden. Denum æfter dom. Dreamleas gebad he gewann langsum,”_ she said, and blinked away the flash of gold. The plant glowed briefly for a moment. In her mind, the... _shape_ of the spell hovered, understanding without meaning.

“...Did I do that?”

“Indeed.”

“And the point is...?”

“Written in the book. You may study it later; now I want you to learn basic anatomy.” He thumped the heaviest book into her lap, making Merlyn grunt as it pulled on the stab-wound.

“Start from the beginning. I only require you to read the first chapter tonight.”

Merlyn read while Gaius did something at the bench. A while later, she looked up.

“Gaius?”

“Yes?”

“You know how you said that my tongue would stop being numb?”

“Yes?” he answered in what Merlyn considered to be a more guarded voice.

“My face is numb too.”

“It will pass.”

“My left arm's a bit numb as well. And it’s sort of tingling.”

“Leave it _be,_ Myrddin!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to- sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Give me perhaps half a candle-mark, then I'll tend you,” he added, more kindly.

“Thank you.”

Merlyn read another page. Then she slid quite bonelessly off the stool, sort of folding up and dropping off. She blinked at the fire, which was in varying shades of purple, as was the mantelpiece, and...everything, really. Dizziness was ebbing and flowing through her head like the tide. What was _wrong_ with her?

She tried to shift where she lay, but to no avail. Panic gripped her. For several minutes, she wallowed in indecision, trying to decide whether to disturb Gaius or not. But when her vision began to spot with darkness and the world faded and brightened sporadically, when her heart felt strange within her chest, she relented. Mother help her.

“Gaius?” she muttered, feeling winded. Well, at least she could speak. He turned his head. “I... know ‘snot time yet, but I _really_ don' feel... uuh. Good.” He got up, uncorking the antidote with one hand. Merlyn frowned at that.

“Ah, that would be the Monkshood I put in your ale. Next time, my girl,” Gaius said disapprovingly, “you’d be wise to ask if the drink poisoned.”

“Nnnggg,” said Merlyn. He bent down, bracing one hand on her back, and helped raise her to something that more-or-less equated a sitting position. He tilted her head back, dribbling the antidote down her throat, then put one arm around her waist and stood up. He was oddly strong for an old man, she thought muzzily.

Everything went a bit hazy after that. She knew she was moving, because, because… The shutters were an interesting lavender colour, she noticed, like Lady Morgana’s second-skin. Speaking of skin, hers was numb. She knew it was numb because she was being dragged across the floor and she couldn’t feel a thing, which she knew because-

What was she saying? Her head felt like it was underwater. Shapes moved strangely, and sound seemed… muffled. She was laid down on a cot, all floppy like a rag-doll, and something was spread over her. Merlyn wondered where Nida’s doll was. She’d had it, she knew she’d had it…

Her teeth were vibrating. That was annoying her.

With that thought in mind, she drifted into the realms of unconsciousness.

*

There was darkness and warmth around her, coating her like a heavy blanket.

(…Actually, that might’ve just been the blanket.)

Darkness and warmth. Warmth and- nothing. Merlyn floated in and out of awareness, surfacing just enough to be register the warmth and the darkness where no sound nor light penetrated. Dimly, she felt herself convulse. That probably wasn’t a good thing. Soon though, she forgot it, and went back to floating. Floating was nice. Here, she didn’t have to care about anything. Her body – because it wasn’t _her,_ because she was here, in the darkness and warmth – convulsed again, twitching. How… interesting. She didn’t remember it doing that before.

Convulse, forget, convulse, forget… it was becoming a steady pattern, and although she forgot, it was growing tiresome. Better now to sleep, better to know nothing at all…

She awoke to gold. Gold around her, gold in her head, golden skin and golden bone. Merlyn lay in gold, on gold, through gold, looking at gold. She stifled a scream. This place, _this place_ terrified her, for a reason she could not name. She looked at her unscarred, unclothed skin, glittering gold-er than the rest of her surroundings. Was gold-er a word? No. But she liked the sound of it, so it was now.

Something grabbed her gold-er ankle. Merlyn looked down. Along. Whatever.

A shadow-hand was gripping her leg. She really screamed now, instinctively throwing the thing away from her with magic. She had to get out of here, somehow, this place with no doors and no paths and no sky. The arm withdrew, tumbling upwards to form a shadow-person. More and more blurred into existence behind it slipping towards her in the way that only shadows can. 

Oh Mother. Oh _God oh God._ She went to grab onto her _ebed,_ onto her necklace, onto _anything_ that might at least give her support and remind her of what was real, but her skin was unscarred and unclothed, and that meant no _ebed,_ no necklace, _no knife_. Oh, how she wished for her knife.

And then her knife was in her hand. Merlyn almost dropped it in surprise, glancing from the worn hilt to the advancing shadows. How had it…?

Shadows were gathered in a wide ring around her, stretching into the distance. And they were just… standing there. As Merlyn looked closer, she realised that they didn’t resemble real, human people so much as they did stick figures drawn in the dirt by children and given shadow-flesh. And the huge, hulking things dotted amongst the crowd were like the monsters under the bed.

Hah. She wasn’t afraid of shadow-fears. She’d met real monsters, and they were all human. Now she had an advantage over them.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said loudly. _Afraid of you afraid of you of you afraid you_ came her voice echoing back. She gripped the knife. “You’re not real.” _Not real real not real not real._ The shadows pressed forward minutely, dark forms crowding around her.

“You’re not real,” she repeated. “You’re shadows. You’re just… my imagination.”

 _“Wrong,”_ came a grating hiss. Merlyn jumped.

“So? I’m realer than you. Does it matter if I’m right or not?”

_“Nothing is realer than a shadow, Emrys. This form is conjured from your mind, it is true. You would not be able to comprehend our true nature. We are the restless dead, and we will use you to break through into the mortal world. We will feed upon your magic until you are nothing more than a husk.”_

That sounded… worrying. But they were shadows, right? And shadows couldn’t exist in the light. Holding the knife low, she stretched her other hand out and thought, _fire._ A pillar of flame shot out, encasing her in a circle of heat.

“You see!” she shouted. “You’re _shadows!_ You can’t exist in the light!” She pushed the fire outwards, trying to burn them up. It had to work. It _had_ to.

The fire went out.

 _“Do you wish to try again?”_ said the voice tauntingly. Yeah, yeah she did. She sent a burning line of flame straight into the shadows, but they were… _snuffed_ as they hit the first rank. Not snuffed; absorbed. They were _sucking_ the magic out of her.

But Merlyn was nothing if not stubborn. Again and again she tried, until she was dizzy with effort, until her magic sparked and spurted like blood from a cut artery. In desperation, she threw her knife at the head of one that was trying to grab onto her when she had failed to produce more than a spark in one hand. It hissed and drew back.

Her knife…

She had wished for her knife, and her knife had appeared. Following this logical thought, she wished for a sword.

…Er. Perhaps one that wasn’t so heavy?

Yeah, that was better. She swung the sword in a flashy arc like she’d seen Arthur do, grinning with satisfaction as the thin line of the blade slashed through the air. The shadows swayed, uncertain.

“I figured it out,” she announced, shaking her head to try and rid herself of the exhaustion.

_“There was **nothing** to ‘figure out’! Give us your magic! Give up! Give up! You will only lose!”_

“Wrong!” she answered in a sing-song voice that she used when Will was being especially annoying. From the hissing that followed, she figured it worked as well on them as it did on him. “Now, I don’t know if I’m entirely right, but I’m fairly certain I’ve got the gist of it.” She spread her arms out wide, smiling hugely. The shadows flinched away from her weapon.

“You feed on my magic, right? And… you’re dead. Me and my magic are alive. There’s something correlating those two things. Even when I use fire, which would make sense to try and get rid of you, you still feed on it, because it’s alive. Thus it follows that that when I use something, like a sword-” she lashed out suddenly, cutting down an entire rank like wheat-stalks at reaping time, “-which is deader than you are, because it was _never_ alive, it affects you. AmIright?”

The shadows responded by letting out a terrible whistling shriek.

“Shut _up!”_ she shouted over the cacophony. “You’re not doing yourself any favours!” The shrieking continued.

 _“How are you doing it?”_ emerged one voice from the noise. _“That sword is magic! You conjured it, and yet still you banish us? How are you doing it? **How are you doing it?”**_

“How funny would it be,” Merlyn said ponderously, “if I said by magic?”

Then she attacked.

The sword was light enough that her arm wasn’t about to tire soon. She slashed and hacked, watching the shadows dissipate with grim satisfaction. For a while, she thought she was winning.

But the shadows, of course, weren’t just shadows. They were, as they had termed themselves, _the restless dead._ And that meant they were human.

And humans, even when they horrifically stupid, displayed a certain kind of nasty intelligence. Humans could adapt. Humans could survive.

Well. Sort of.

And they _kept coming back._ How _dare_ they! They were dead! They were-! Actually, that was probably why. But still! Common dead folk at least had the decency to stay dead when they died! Why! Would! They! Not! Just! Stay! Stabbed!

 _“How are you doing this?”_ grated one of the horrible hulking things to her right. _“How are-”_ she stabbed it through the throat and wondered if she was: one – killing them, and two – whether this now made her a mass-murderer. Whatever. They were dead. They didn’t respect the dead and being dead, then neither would she. The thing scratched her across the face just as it faded, wearing something she might’ve considered a smile.

Ow. Ow ow ow.

“Son of a ratty, mangy, God-lost dog!” she spat at the shadow that had filled the gap the thing had left.

 _“I beg your pardon?”_ it asked in a mild voice.

“Not you,” Merlyn replied irritably, stabbing to the left.

 _“I would be most grateful if you did not banish me,”_ the shadow continued. _“It’s rather inconvenient, and I’m not particularly interested in ‘using you to break through into the mortal world’.”_ The quotation marks clanged into place. _“I would like to make you an offer- oh dear.”_

She felt the pain five seconds later. It was… cold. Cold like ocean water on a winter’s morning, cold like steel, cold like a corpse. She felt like she was drowning _(again, again)_ as she breathed in air. Unbidden, a memory rushed back to her.

_(Swimming naked in the sea with Nida and building stone cairns and having fun and watching her sister being swept towards the rocks and freezing the ocean around her and pulling her out of the ice and screaming and dragging her home and cutting her feet on sharp pebbles and being beaten and beaten for letting her sister get hurt and for not getting there quick enough and for using magic and for being her mother’s bastard child and she cried herself to sleep (again, again) and she dreamt that she was drowning and she dreamt of the sea but she woke to fire because they had cuffed her with iron while she slept, and it was burning her and she wished she had been in Nida’s place, wished she had been drowned, wished she had been dashed against the cliffs because it was burning her and burning her…)_

She blinked it away and looked down. A shadow-hand was sticking through her chest. Merlyn let out a garbled scream, trying to twist around, which proved to be a bad idea, because it felt like her entire chest was full of shards of ice.

 _“Emrys!”_ sang her unseen tormentor, _“I have you now!”_ the hand withdrew, making her gasp as she felt it pass through her ribs. Then something _tugged_ in her chest, as though it were a string being pulled upon. She spun around, sword dangling from her suddenly-boneless arm, staring at the shadow behind her. Around its hand was a spool of golden light, making even her gold-er skin seem dim. And the light was coming out of _her_. Perhaps her analogy had been more apt than she had realised. Slowly, almost reverently, the shadow pulled the light towards it, gradually _solidifying_ in the glow of what Merlyn presumed to be her magic. It looked human now, not just a shadow anymore, and she realised, as the dread began to pool in her gut, that she recognised it.

Somehow, the mother of Thomas James Collins was still a nuisance in her life. She grinned at the incensed old woman weakly.

“Hi?”

“You _killed_ me!” the other snapped, giving a yank on the magic-line so vicious that it pulled Merlyn to her knees.

“Ow. Look, I know you’re upset-”

“Only because I was unjustly _murdered!”_

“No, look here, me killing you wasn’t unjust. You were trying to commit regicide! What else what I supposed to do?”

“Perhaps let me have my revenge! It wouldn’t have affected you in the slightest if I’d just killed him!”

“…Except that I’d feel like an awful person for the rest of my life and would have to deal with the fact that someone just got slain by magic?” The old woman was _still_ pulling at her magic, the light spilling over her wizened hands and onto the ground all around them.

“Someone was still slain by magic, girl.” She grunted. “How much magic do you _have?”_ Merlyn shrugged.

“I have no idea. Like, my uncle told me that I’m the most powerful magic user he’s ever seen, but I think he also just poisoned me to test how good an antidote I made, so the hallmote’s still out on that one.” She swung the sword suddenly down at the magic line. It passed through it, leaving her feeling like her body had just been turned inside-out.

“Ow ow ow ow,” Merlyn said, then threw the blade Thomas James Collins’ mother’s head. She whipped the magic up, deflecting it, and it skittered away into the shadows that had gathered around them, watching incuriously. “Aughjghjghg.”

 _“Hurry up, you black and midnight hag,”_ rasped one.

“You shut up, Moria Baxter,” snapped Thomas James Collins’ mother back at it. “Black and midnight hag, I’ll give _you_ black and midnight hag…”

“Hey, shadow dude I was talking to, you still there?”

 _“I believe so,”_ said the shadow in what might’ve been a dry voice, if it actually, y’know, had a voice to be dry with. Wow. That made absolutely zero sense. Maybe the loss of magic was affecting her more than she thought.

“Great. Can you, like, help me out here, please?” The effect was immediate.

 _“Traitor!”_ screamed the slightly-shriller hiss of Moria Baxter.

_“Of course.”_

“Great. Get in front of me, _right now.”_ A shadow appeared before her, intercepting the stream of magic.

 _“This feels rather odd,”_ it commented.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Merlyn muttered, listening to Thomas James Collins’ mother scream with rage. “Oh wow, she’s royally angry now. Hang on.” She clenched her hands together as though she were praying, focusing on the tendril of magic came out of her. The thread promptly thickened to a gush as thick as her arm, pouring straight into the one benevolent dead guy she could find in this place. His form took shape much quicker than Thomas James Collins’ mother’s had, revealing a serious-looking, be-spectacled man of about thirty years.

“Hi,” she said, flashing a grin at him, “I’m Merlyn.” He sketched a small bow in the air.

“Tristan. I say, could it turn it off now?”

“What?” He gestured to the magic. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe.” The magic stopped.

“Looks like the answer was yes.”

“Great. Let’s kick some shadow a-”

She disappeared. A moment later, so did Tristan and Thomas James Collins’ mother. The shadows stared.

 _“Well, that was anticlimactic,”_ said one of them.

 _“And boring,”_ said another. _“I’m going to torment the Sidhe, who wants to come?”_

_“Tormenting the Sidhe is **boring,** Avery. I wanted to torment my brother-in-law. He never gave me back my money. Or my wife.”_

_“I heard that!”_ shrieked Moria Baxter.

_“Shut up, Moria.”_

_“Oh well,”_ said the second one cheerfully, _“he'll be old now. You'll only have to wait another three years or so before you get to punch him.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“So, the Sidhe?”_

_“Why not? It’s not as though there’s anything interesting to do around here.”_

_“That girl was fun, though.”_

_“Yeah.”_

The two of them wandered off into another, realer, less gold part of the realm, gradually solidifying as they did so.

 _“Did you see how much magic Mary got out of her?”_ said the one apparently known as Avery. _“She should’ve dissipated before half of that stuff was taken.”_

_“Yeah, but she’s Emrys.”_

_“Yeah, alright, three-quarters. Then she shaped Tristan!”_

_“Why was he there, anyway? He’s not vengeful.”_

_“Yes he is.”_

_“No he isn’t.”_

_“Is.”_

_“Isn’t.”_

_“Yes, he is. **His** brother-in-law killed him in a duel after his sister died.”_

_“His brother-in-law killed him after his sister-in-law died?”_

_“No, after **Tristan’s** sister died. Why do you have to complicate everything?” _

_“I can’t help it.”_

_“I’m sure.”_

_“Avery?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Why couldn’t we get at the Emrys kid?”_

_“I thought you spoke Cymru.”_

_“I do- oh. I see. Oh.”_

_“I don’t even know why we bothered trying to use her.”_

_“It was worth a try, at least.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Tristan and Mary should count themselves lucky. They got what we wanted.”_

_“Yeah.”_

At that point, a Sidhe flew overhead. Unbeknownst to it, it had quite possibly just made the worst mistake of its entire life. The last thing it heard was a hoarse cry of _‘let’s gettim, Avery!’_ before everything went to hell.

And somewhere, quite close, the metaphorical beast heaved itself to itself to its metaphorical feet. It had her now.

Oh yes, it had her now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not posting this for like, 2 months!! (on the other hand there are 4 more works by me to invest in!! yay!!) as always please leave comments/kudos bc i crave external validation :))


	12. Seperation; Falling Out The Window; The Illegitimate Spares; Mary and Tristan (Again); Gloves Fit For A Prince; A Life That Offically Sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlyn comes back to the land of the living. Merlyn gets sacked. Merlyn nearly dies. Not quite in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to the darling guest who leaves the dear long comments at the end of each chapter. thank you <3

It was official: her life sucked. So, so much. She’d woken up multiple times after the gold place, unable to move, but, eventually, she was able to sit up and even stand and walk, although breathing while upright made her want to throw up. Gaius was nowhere to be seen, so she stumbled over to the water-barrel and dunked her head in it, pausing when she caught sight of her face. Three lines crossed her cheek on the diagonal, the uppermost one starting in the corner of her eye and ending under her ear. It looked like a strange shadow, but when she moved her head from side to side, it stayed fixed in position. Suspicion growing, she pulled up her tunic, looking down at her chest. The same thin shadow-lines were wreathed across her ribs – so sharp against her flesh, _too_ sharp, almost sharper than they’d ever been, coming off the back a not-so-bountiful autumn and a fortnight and a week of barely eating - putting her in mind of a blighted tree in winter. Blankly, she let the material drop from her fingers. By then, it had been well past sunrise, but she’d staggered up to Arthur’s chambers with his gear bundled up in her arms and gotten shouted at for her efforts when she found him on the training field, waiting for her. He seemed to think she was hungover, although she couldn’t imagine why.

Actually – she grimaced – yeah, she could. Being hungover like she was a fortnight ago felt remarkably similar to this. Gaius had still been absent when she left his quarters, and she couldn’t help resenting him just the slightest bit for that, although it made sense that he wouldn’t just be waiting and watching over her. He was a physician, after all; he had other, better priorities than playing the niece poisoned by his own hand.

Gaius _had_ left a letter, though, she conceded to herself, detailing his brief apology, and, mostly, where she’d gone wrong in preparing the cure and how to fix it. That was great; she’d lived, sure, but only barely, and if and when the time came that someone of actual importance was poisoned, it’d be prudent to get it right and make sure they lived.

The rest of the day had been a bit blurry. Arthur fought; Valiant the scumbag fought; a knight of Camelot named Sir Ewan got bitten by a snake; that was all she remembered.

Oh yeah, and she’d cut the head off the illegal magic snakes in Valiant’s illegal magic shield, too. She’d noticed it in the armoury earlier that day and could’ve sworn that one of the painted serpents had _winked_ at her, although that might’ve just been the after-effects of the poison. The world around her still had a slightly purple hue, after all. But no, the snakes in Valiant’s illegal magic shield were illegally and magically _alive,_ and, apparently, he was using the shield to cheat. Well, that’s what Merlyn thought, anyway. Sir Ewan had been beating him, and she _did_ vaguely remember a moment where his shield had been pressed up against Sir Ewan in defence, held there perhaps a second too long, enough time for him to summon the illegal magic snakes and illegally and magically incapacitate Ewan to win the round.

So that night she’d snuck into his rooms and cut the head off one of his illegal magic snakes. Hah. Sucker. He’d almost caught her, too, but she’d managed to evade him by hiding behind a column, which perhaps tells you more about both Merlyn and Valiant than they’d wish you to know.

She’d taken the head to Gaius, explained about the magic shield and stuff while doing her best not to sway on the spot from exhaustion, and he’d extracted the venom and given the head to Merlyn to show to Arthur (after, of course, copious research in bestiaries a hundred years old to prove that the magic snake was actually magical and not just some random snake) which would maybe convince him not to fight Valiant in the finals. Because, y’know, destiny hated her.

Now, back to her life officially sucking. Merlyn strolled down the hallway, snake head in her breast pocket, trying not to breath too deeply, when a wave of dizziness struck her. She staggered, almost crashing into the wall opposite her. She groped at the stone, stomach roiling, and eventually managed to lurch over to a window, which she threw open, breathing in the blessedly cool air. She wasn’t sure how long she stayed like that, eyes shut, face resting in her hands, but she was jerked back to reality by the sound of voices, coming steadily closer. She spun around, eyes wide with shock, trying to see who it was, and if there was a threat.

And because her life sucked (officially), there was. In one direction came Sir Samuel and Valiant the slimy, deep in what was almost definitely evil conversation, and in the other came Lord Trillo and a young man with bright red hair, Keaton trailing behind them disconsolately. Fortunately, he saw her first, smiled, and lifted his fingers in a wave. She nodded at him hurriedly, then jumped through the window. Merlyn clung to a gargoyle just below the window, one arm wrapped around its neck and feet dangling, heart hammering in her ears. Oh _Mother_ _help her,_ she was going to die, right here, right now-

“Mm, boy?” said a voice that reeked of wealth, “shut the, mm, window. Your brother’ll catch a, mm, chill, otherwise, mmhmm.” Keaton’s head appeared over the window ledge.

“Merlyn?” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“What’re you doing?”

“Oh, you know. Hanging out.” He grinned at that, eyes crinkling at the corners. He had a nice smile, Merlyn decided. Not as nice as Gwen’s, to be sure, but still pleasant to look at.

“Yeah, but why? I assume you usually don’t jump out of windows for fun?” She didn’t reply immediately, instead setting her feet against the wall and walking up it until she was able to sit on the statue.

“Look,” she said, “there are three people in that corridor at the moment who want to kill me. One’s already tried to. I don’t know about you, but sticking around didn’t seem like an ideal thing if I wanted to remain in possession of all of my limbs and my life.”

“Mm, boy? What’s, mm, taking you so long, mm?” she heard the voice of what was presumably Lord Trillo mutter.

“You’d better go before your father figures out you’re talking to a wanted criminal that’s personally offended him.”

“When you say it like that, we sound like desperate star-crossed lovers, you know.”

“Did you perhaps miss the part about my being a literal offender to your entire family and house?”

“Even better.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Good.” Merlyn shook her head, grinning despite herself.

 _“Go,_ or I will come up there and make you, your father and everyone else be damned.”

“Mm, boy?” said Trillo. They both started, shocked back into reality, then grinned guiltily at each other.

“Farewell, my love,” Keaton told her solemnly.

“Goodbye, heart of my heart.”

“May we meet again in death, for leaving you will be leaving the only joy of my life.”

“Begone!” With an overly-regretfully face, he closed the shutters, touching his fist to his heart and reaching it out to her as he withdrew his head from view. Merlyn smiled again, then blinked long and hard, slapping her cheeks so the sudden feeling of un-realness would maybe pass. It didn’t work, so she shrugged and climbed. Halfway across a section of wall, her hand seized up in a damned bloody cramp. She let go instinctively, trying to stretch it out, then felt her stomach drop as she plummeted towards the far-away cobblestones. Wind whistled in her ears as she fell, she was falling, falling, falling, tightening her grip on her magic all the while-

She threw out her right hand, trying to grab onto a out-ward jutting ledge as she hurtled past, scraping her palm raw and tearing her fingernails off as she did so. She almost let go again from the pain, the awful, biting pain, but put her other hand to her mouth and bit the bandages securing the brace to her wrist. They fell away, leaving the bandage beneath it, the wood clattering distantly against the ground after several moments. Then she reached up and grabbed the ledge, feeling the sickening flood of the stone burning through her.

Blood drained from her face as bones clicked in her wrist and pain barked up her wrist. She let out a whimper, for she’d forgotten how much it’d hurt before Gaius had splinted it. Oh, he was going to give her _hell_ for this, but what choice did she have? Trillo was a lord, rich and powerful, Samuel was a knight, as was Valiant, lumps of useless wastes of space they might be otherwise. They all wanted to murder her. And what was she? A useless criminal. A servant. A lowly weaver. The crown prince of the kingdom had saved her from prosecution, but _still._ That was a one-off thing.

The reminder of her theft made her realise how hungry she was. She might’ve been a fool, but she wasn’t fool enough to not know when she was starving. Two sausages in a day was an abundance of meat, but not an abundance of food. She’d starved before. It wasn’t fun.

Grimacing at her grim, if truthful, thoughts, Merlyn twisted one foot until she could dig the toe of her boot sideways into the slight gap between two stones, then pulled herself upward until she was braced on her elbows and forearms. Slowly, painfully, she climbed, leaving a trail of bloody handprints in her wake.

Eventually, when it was well and truly night and she’d tore both her hands open when she’d grabbed on a deceptive piece of wall in the darkness and fallen several times, she ended up squatting on Arthur’s window ledge. He appeared to be standing, pacing slightly, a piece of parchment in one hand, almost as though he were… giving a speech. Merlyn felt a thrill of pride run through her, dulling the burning in her hands for a moment as she realised it was _her_ piece of parchment, and that he was practicing _her_ speech that _she_ had written. But within her, another part hissed, _kill him! Kill him! Avenge me! Avenge my son!_ Merlyn blinked. It didn’t _sound_ like the dragon, or the voice she’d come to regretfully accept that was her conscience, but it was familiar, nonetheless…

 _Don’t distract her, Mary,_ interrupted another that had a definite masculine timbre to it. Merlyn frowned, staring blankly through the glass as she listened to what was apparently a conversation in her head. _We’re rather high up here, and I’d rather not we’d fall._

_You shut up, Tristan de Bois!_

“Don’t tell me that the gold place was real,” Merlyn groaned under her breath. “For the love of the Goddess, _please_ don’t tell me I’ve ended up with two ghosts in my brain.”

There was a definitive silence.

_Mary, use your magic to make her stop hearing us._

_That isn’t how magic works, you stupid man! I need a body to do magic, and I’m very well not going to take the girl over when we’re up this high. Who knows what might happen?_

_You... could stop talking?_ suggested the voice that was apparently Tristan.

_Oh, so it’s **my** fault, of course it’s **my** fault, everything’s always **my** fault! Help me, girl! I’m being oppressed!_

_I have a name, you know,_ Merlyn told the voice that seemed to be Thomas James Collins’ mother. _Using it’s not that hard. Now be quiet. I need to open this window._

Grumbling, the… _Mary-ness_ of Mary dwindled away. But now that she was aware of their presence, she could pinpoint them in her mind, like nails lodged in timber. Filing that away for further consideration, she studied the hinge in front of her carefully, searching for signs of rust that she would need to oil and thus spite Arthur by being good at her job, then withdrew her knife from her belt and slotted it in the thin gap between the wooden frame and the lead edging, levering the latch upward and pushing the window open slightly.

“You know,” she said conversationally, “you should really lock your window.” Arthur whirled around, dropping the speech and grabbing his sword off the table and drawing it in one smooth movement. After a moment, he relaxed, letting the point droop to the floor.

“Is there any particular reason you’re climbing through my window in the middle of the night?”

“Hey, hey, no, I take offence to that. They’d only just started Compline in the chapel when I started climbing, so it’s not that late. And yeah, there is.”

“Well? Get on with it.” Obediently, she pulled off her jacket and fumbled around for the snake head. For the first time, Arthur seemed to notice the way she was dripping blood all over the place. Good on him.

“What happened?”

“Well, a week before Samhain in a tiny village in the middle of absolute nowhere, I was born, then dropped in the hearth by my sister, then-”

“To your _hands._ Although you being dropped as an infant does explain rather a lot, _Mer_ lyn.”

“I slipped on the wall,” she said distractedly, trying to unhook one of the snake’s fangs from the thread of her jacket and hissing as her abused fingers sent a shock of agony racing through her and one of the scabs broke open and dribbled blood onto the neckerchief. She finally succeeded in wresting the head from her pocket and held it up triumphantly, smearing red on its scales, then set it on the table. “Have you ever seen a snake like this in Camelot?” Arthur took it slowly, holding it in front of his face and turning it back and forth.

“I can’t say I have.”

“Yeah, right. So I, uh… happened to be… uh… walking past Valiant’s chambers, right, and – oh, oh _wow_ , _Mother_ I’m dizzy, never accept a drink from Gaius unless you want to be poisoned, it’s a terrible idea – and he’s like, _feeding_ these snakes that are coming out of his shield – which makes no sense, unless the snakes were alive _before_ they became part of the shield, and then I went back later and cut one of the snake heads off and turns out that that’s the reason why Sir Ewan is dying in one of Gaius’ cots and anyway I’m accusing him of using magic to cheat in the tournament.” She sucked on the bleeding finger. “Ow.”

“Merlyn-” Arthur began, but she surged on before he could presumably shut her down, confidence fuelled by her dislike of Valiant the rust-stain growing.

“Look, I _know_ that I’m already a criminal or whatever, and that I’m just a servant and my word counts for nothing, but I swear to you that what I say is true.” The prince tilted his head, looking at her with an odd expression. Finally, he set down the snake, nodding shortly.

“Then I believe you.” She grinned. Maybe he was more intelligent than she gave him credit for, and he _believed_ her, he who she had caught throwing knives at his last servant- But why was she surprised? He’d also asked her if she was alright, when she got stuck alone in the same room as bloody damned Samuel. Why was she surprised?

*

Nope, Arthur didn’t have a brain. So, so obviously didn’t have a brain. Anyone who actually possessed one would _clearly_ see that calling the court a candlemark nearly two hours after Compline had finished was irredeemably stupid. And she was just as dumb because she’d said ‘if the court hears of this they’ll give Valiant hell,’ with _way_ too much satisfaction, and Arthur had decided to summon the court, and she’d gone along with it for whatever idiotic reason that she couldn’t quite recall at this moment.

“My liege, this is ridiculous. I’ve _never_ used magic. Does your son have _any_ evidence to support this- this outrageous accusation?” Huh. That was… actually pretty convincing. If she herself hadn’t seen with her own eyes the snakes come alive, Merlyn might’ve bought it. But she had seen it, so…

Actually, Valiant might’ve been telling the truth. If he was… if he had, say, been _given_ the shield, already enchanted, then, if a spell wasn't used to summon them, he wouldn't actually be using magic.

The rat.

“Do you have evidence?” the king asked.

“I do.” In her peripheral vision, she saw Arthur motion her forward. Oh _great._ This was _just_ what she wanted.

 _The king…_ hissed Mary and, surprisingly, Tristan, their voices rattling around her head in eery unison.

 _Shut up,_ she snapped back, barely refraining from saying the words out loud. Oh by stone and sea and sky, if she’d _said_ that _to the king-_ If _she had said that-_

She shuffled towards _Uther Pendragon_ and held out the head, the gloves that Arthur made her wear to cover the wreckage of her hands rubbing her raw fingers painfully. The king regarded it with disinterest, then took it from her, studying it a moment before dropping it back onto her palm.

“Let me see the shield.” Valiant the frogspawn withdrew said shield from the copious folds of his rich cloak where he’d somehow concealed it, holding it out for inspection, every inch the demure, humble knight. Merlyn leaned back surreptitiously until she was in line with Arthur.

“Don’t let him get to close,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, to which his response was to draw his sword. Well then. That was certainly _one_ way to deal with it.

“Myrddin,” someone whispered. Merlyn whirled around, and there was Gaius, looking uncharacteristically worried. Arthur seemed to have noticed to, for he whispered back:

“We need Ewan. Find out what’s happening.” She nodded, retreating to where her uncle stood.

“Sir Ewan has died,” he told her in a hushed voice. Merlyn felt the bottom of her stomach drop out. 

“No- _no,_ he was our witness! How did this happen?”

“I’m not sure, but I found another bite mark on him when I examined him in rigor mortis. It matched that of the enchanted snake from Valiant’s shield.” Merlyn swore a number of filthy curses, scowling furiously.

“As you can see, my lord,” Valiant the Mother-damned incarnation of bogwater was saying in a disgustingly respectful voice, laced with just the right amount of scepticism, “it’s just an ordinary shield.”

“He’s not going to let everyone see the snakes come alive,” retorted Arthur, bless him, which was actually a good point. Unfortunately Arthur’s father apparently hated him and wasn’t going to play favourites.

“Then how am I to know what you say is true?” It was weird, Merlyn thought, for such a famously paranoid man when it came to magic, that the king was actually being, _dare she think it_ , cautious.

 _Uther was never particularly consistent,_ Tristan remarked drily. _Even when we were young, he’d chop and change about everything. I suppose it’s reasonable to assume that he’d've stayed the same.  
_

_Not the time, but thanks anyway,_ she told him silently.

“I have a witness. Sir Ewan was bitten by one of the snakes from the shield. Its venom, however, has made him grievously ill, but he has received the antidote. He will confirm that _Sir Valiant_ is using magic.”

“And where is this witness?” demanded Uther.

“He should be here.” The prince turned to her. “Where’s Ewan?” Merlyn swallowed.

“He’s dead.”

“I’m waiting!” snapped the king. Arthur breathed deeply, lips white with barely concealed rage.

“I’m afraid,” he said with deliberation, “that the witness is dead.”

“So you have no proof to support these allegations. Have you seen Valiant using magic?” Arthur floundered.

“No, but- my servant fought one of the snakes from-”

“Your _servant?_ You made these _contemptable_ accusations against a _knight_ on the word of _your servant_?”

“I believe that Merlyn is telling the truth!”

“My lord,” Valiant interjected, “am I really to be judged on the heresay of some boy?” Merlyn sighed. Of course it would be _just her luck_ that she was wearing a tunic and that stupid old men would mistake her for a guy. _Again._

That aside, though, she was angry. So, so _angry,_ at Uther for being a less-than-desirable father, and for Valiant the suck-up just about kissing the king’s ass to stay cozy with him, and at herself for not making sure that Ewan was healed and guarded, and at Arthur for bringing this to the court in the first place, and- and-

The list went on.

“I have seen those snakes come alive. My lord,” she said, tacking on the title like an afterthought. It wasn’t even the _right one._ My lord? For a _king?_ What was Camelot _coming_ to?

“How dare you interrupt?” Oops. Alright, that’d probably been a pretty daft thing to do, in hindsight. “Guards?”

No, this was stupid. This was so, so stupid.

 _If you hit him in the neck with the edge of your hand, you may kill him,_ Mary suggested hopefully.

 _Knock him over and stand on his windpipe,_ Tristan added.

_I am not killing the king! That’s regicide! I am not! committing! murder!_

_But you **could,**_ Tristan told her.

_Not the point! What if I missed? Then I’m **dead.**_

“My lord,” Valiant interrupted. The king held up a hand, and the guards stopped moving. “I’m sure he was merely mistaken. I wouldn’t want him punished on my account.”

“You see?” Uther hissed at his son, “this is how a true knight behaves – with gallantry and honour.” Merlyn frowned. She’d been wrong; the king _was_ playing favourites, but he was choosing Valiant. Jerk.

“My lord, if your son made these allegations because he’s afraid to fight me, then I will graciously accept his withdrawal.”

“Is this true? Do you wish to withdraw from the tournament?”

“No!” Arthur snapped.

“Then what am I to make of these accusations?”

Well, she thought, accepting that a foreign knight was using magic to cheat in the tournament and murder the king’s only son so he could win a thousand gold pieces would be a good start. In her mind, Mary cackled delightedly.

“Obviously,” said Arthur, holding up his hands in a gesture of supplication, “there has been a mistake. I withdraw the allegations against Sir Valiant. Please accept my apologies.” And Valiant, the smug, smug, crooked-nosed knave, smiled and did so.

*

Arthur was silent all the way back to his chambers, walking stiff and upright with her trailing behind as a servant should. They’d botched it. _She’d_ botched it. If only she’d _checked_ on Ewan-! If only she’d been better, if only she’d been quicker, she could’ve prevented it. Crone damn her to Brigid’s hells, but she was the most useless thing to ever live.

“I believed you, I trusted you, and you made me look like a complete fool!” Arthur shouted. She flinched, stiffening. Oh _Mother_ he was angry at her. Merlyn was angry at herself, too, so at least they had something in common, but he was _angry._

“I- I know it, um, it didn’t go exactly to- to plan-”

“‘Didn’t go to plan’? _Didn’t go to plan?_ My father and the _entire_ royal court think I’m a coward! You _humiliated_ me!”

“Look, we can still expose Valiant-”

“I no longer require your services,” he said flatly.

“You’re sacking me?”

“I need a servant that I can trust.”

And Merlyn thought; I’m lying to you every day about the very nature of my existence. I’m as good as dead if you ever find out about my magic. It doesn’t matter I’d never use it against Camelot; I’m a sorcerer. My word counts for even less than it does when I serve you. But still she said:

“You can trust me.”

“And look where it got me!” he yelled, then breathed out heavily, dropping his shoulders defeatedly. “Get out of my sight.” The loathing in his tone of voice struck her like a physical blow. Slowly, she left his chambers, lingering for a moment at the door before gritting her teeth and moving onwards. _Fine._ He could go be killed by stupid prophecy or destiny or whatever the hells that idiot dragon downstairs was yakking on about. She didn’t care. _She didn’t care._ So… why did she want to cry, then? Was she really so weak that she couldn’t even cope with being yelled at for a few minutes? This guy – this guy! – who she’d openly offered to help kill to the dumb dragon a sennight ago, then saved him a few days later, this guy, who was meant to drag her people out of drudgery and decay and dread and into a new era of salvation and prosperity, this guy, who was a jerk, but was also sorely lacking in any kind of parent figure that he should have, this guy who clearly didn’t have any friends, no companions, no one to turn to except perhaps Lady Morgana, and Merlyn liked _her_ well enough, but who knew where her loyalties lay? Not quite to the king, certainly, if the way she’d reacted for the festival held in the _honour_ of the twentieth anniversary of his murder spree was any way to judge. This guy, who she’d hated so _bitterly,_ even before she’d met him, even more after, and now-

 _I apologise for my nephew’s behaviour,_ came the calm, cultured voice of Tristan in her mind. _There is no excuse for treating you in such a manner._ She blinked, but before she could find the energy to conduct a reply, Mary broke in. 

_There was a **reason**_ _he should’ve been killed! Do you not see now?_

 _I thought your reason was revenge, Mary,_ she replied silently. She held a lot less pity for the old woman now that she’d seen how vindictive and perpetually annoyed she was, but part of her was growing to like the salty ronyon. Mary gave what seemed to be a grunt, which, considering their methods of communication, was an extraordinary feat.

_The young prince has committed many crimes against our people. Perhaps it would’ve been better to kill two birds with one stone._

Perhaps. Perhaps perhaps perhaps. the world was full of perhapses, of maybes and should’ve dones and might’ve beens, uncertainty waiting around every corner, ready to swallow her whole. Irritably, she tugged the gloves off, grimacing as the movement rubbed against her grazes and made her wrist ache horribly, then stuffed them in her belt. Gloves fit for a prince, except they were a bit worn and had a few holes in the fingers, so they weren’t, but far too fine for the likes of her, who didn’t have two pennigs to rub together.

“So much for destiny,” she muttered, and walked on.


End file.
